ALDERBROOK: 


A   COLLECTION    OF 


FANNY  FORESTER'S 


VILLAGE   SKETCHES,    POEMS,   ETC. 


BY 

MISS    EMILY    CHUBBUCK. 


IN    TWO    VOLUMES. 

VOL.  n. 


FOURTH    EDITION. 


BOSTON: 
WILLIAM   D.  TICKNOR  AND  COMPANY 


M  DCCC  XLVII. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1846,  by 

WILLIAM  D.  TICKNOR  AND  COMPANY, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  Massachusetts. 


8t.rtolyp.rt   by 
GEORGE   A.   CURTIS; 


FS 


CONTENTS 

OF    THE    SECOND    VOLUME 


THE  UNUSEFUL, 5 

NORA  MAYLIE, v    15 

GRANDFATHER  BRAY, 35 

SONNET  TO  WINTER, 49 

"        LIGHTS  AND  SHADES, 49 

"       THE  BUDS  OF  THE  SARANAC, 50 

BORN  TO  WEAR  A  CORONET, .     .    51 

WILLARD  LAWSON,     .    .•  -.-•• 63 

A  CASE  OF  LUNACY  NOT  UNCOMMON, 85 

THE  GREAT  MARCH  HOLYDAY, 94 

NOT  A  POET, 107 

Two  NIGHTS  IN  THE  "  NIEUW  NEDERLANDTS," 109 

LUCY  BUTTON, 121 

MYSTERY, 128 

THE  PRIEST'S  SOLILOQUY, 130 

AUNT  ALICE, 133 

MY  FIRST  GRIEF, 136 

THE  MIGNIONETTE,  (A  Fable,) 138 

MINISTERING  ANGELS, 141 

THE  RAIN  A  THOUGHT-MAKER, 143 

GENIUS, 152 


iv  CONTENTS. 

LILIAS  FANE, 157 

TUB  Two  FLOWERS, ^  ,176 

RUG  RAFFLES, 178 

THE  FRENCH  EMIGRANTS, 198 

IDA  RAVELIN,  (A  Fantasy,) 20(5 

To  SPRING, 242 

THE  POETESS,  (An  Allegory,) 244 

DORA', 247 

THE  DISSATISFIED  SPIRIT, 256 

FAREWBTI,  TO  ALDERBROOX, 260 


ALDER  BROOK 

VOL.    II. 


THE    UNUSEFUL. 

MAN  is  a  born  equestrian ;  and  from  the  time  when  mother 
Eve  fixed  her  anxious  heart  on  improving  her  condition,  and 
crushed  a  world  at  a  single  bound,  to  this  present  writing,  he 
has  never  lacked  a  hobby  whereon  to  exercise  to  his  heart's 
content.  And  it  is  no  tame,  gentle  exercise ;  for,  whatever 
the  hobby  may  be,  and  whether  well-mounted  or  otherwise, 
he  not  only  rides  tantivy,  but  hesitates  not  to  "  run  through  a 
troop  and  leap  over  a  wall."  We  have  innumerable  hobbies 
now-a-days ;  and  many  of  them  (to  our  credit  be  it  said)  are 
of  an  excellent  character.  But,  poor  things  !  they  are  ridden 
down  most  savagely. 

You  may  have  seen,  among  these  poor,  jaded,  spavined, 
wind-galled,  would-be-racers  of  beasts  of  burden,  a  huge  mam- 
moth, with  a  back  like  a  continent,  and  legs  like  those  of  Mark 
Antony  in  Cleopatra's  dream.  This  is  a  universal  hobby  that 
men  have  named  USEFULNESS  ;  and  such  strong  claims  has  it 
to  the  suffrages  of  all  but  the  butterflies,  that  whoever  eschews 
the  wing  of  the  idler,  must  needs  accept  a  seat.  There  is  no 
medium,  no  spot  of  terra  firma  on  which  we  may  stand  and 
labor  in  quiet,  sober  earnest ;  one  must  either  flutter  in  the  air 
a  giddy  thing,  or  gallop  away  almost  as  madly  on  the  back  of 
this  irresistible  hobby.  But  we  do,  verily,  constitute  a  goodly 
array;  and  so  uncompromisingly  do  we  ride  down  every- 
thing that  is  elegant  and  beautiful,  and  indolently  lovely,  that 

VOL.  n.  1* 


8  THE    UNUSEFUL. 

anomaly.  At  four,  she  took  patch-work  to  school ;  but  poor 
Nora !  she  could  n't  see  into  the  philosophy  of  over-and-over 
seams.  She  would  rather  spread  the  pretty  calicoes  on  her 
knee,  and  admire  their  bright  coloring,  or  twist  them  up  into 
dolls  with  paper  heads,  and  closely-pinned  drapery.  Then 
she  was  particularly  given  to  losing  thimbles,  and  knotting 
thread ;  and  her  needle,  however  clumsy,  was  always  bent  or 
broken  at  the  point, — the  legitimate  result  of  her  devotion  to 
badly  cracked  hickory  nuts.  And  then  such  stitches  !  Why 
the  little  girls  laughed  till  the  tears  came  into  their  eyes  from 
very  merriment  at  the  sight ;  but  when  they  saw  the  big  drops 
standing  in  hers,  they  all  patted  her  velvet  cheeks  lovingly, 
and  smoothed  her  hanging  hair ;  and  if  they  found  her  incon- 
solable, made  a  chair  with  their  crossed  hands  and  bore  her 
away  in  triumph  to  the  play-ground.  In  their  wise,  confiden- 
tial talks,  they  used  to  say  that  Nora  Maylie  was  just  the 
dearest  little  creature  in  the  world,  but  it  was  a  great  pity  she 
could  not  sew.  As  some  compensation  for  my  little  friend's 
deficiencies,  I  should  like  to  be  able  to  say  that  she  was  a  good 
scholar ;  but  no  assertion  could  have  less  truth  in  it,  —  she 
was  just  no  scholar  at  all.  And  yet  I  am  not  certain  but  a 
careful  observer  of  human  nature,  even  though  less  shrewd 
than  the  worldly-minded  mother,  might  have  detected,  in  this 
very  backwardness,  this  refusal  to  trammel  the  mind  with 
that  which  seemed  in  no  wise  calculated  to  enrich  it,  the 
germ  of  a  higher  order  of  intellect  than  common  minds  ap- 
preciate. As  it  was,  however,  there  was  no  one  near  to  raise 
the  one  fold  of  ignorance  from  the  beautifying  soul  beneath  ; 
and  so  Nora  was  judged  by  her  non-attainments.  How  heart- 
ily she  hated  the  monotonous  a,  b,  c,  and  the  smart,  flippant 
a  b  ab,  e  b  eb,  i  b  ib,  that  made  her  companions'  tongues  re- 
semble so  many  mill-clappers.  When,  by  dint  of  constant 
dinging,  she  could  make  out  the  words  of  a  few  easy  sen- 
tences, such  as  "  no — man — may — put — off* — the — law — 
of — God,"  she  still  evinced  the  same  dead  level  of  intellect, 
and  hated  her  books,  and  hated  (as  poor  Mrs.  Maylie  often 
despairingly  observed)  everything  that  was  useful.  But  Nora 


THE    UNUSEFUL.  9 

did  not  hate  to  follow  her  mother  through  the  routine  of  her 
day's  labor ;  to  run  for  the  spoon  or  carving-knife  when  it 
was  wanted,  and  anticipate  the  thousand  little  wants  that 
occasion  a  careful  housewife  so  many  steps.  She  learned 
this  readily,  for  her  heart  was  her  teacher.  Neither  did  she 
hate  the  arrant  idlers  of  which  I 'have  before  spoken:  the  dal- 
lying breezes,  the  sleepy  flowers,  the  chatty  brooks,  and  the 
slow-sailing  clouds.  Oh  no !  they  were  too  like  her  dear 
little  self,  too  natural  and  graceful,  ay !  and  too  idle  withal, 
to  be  anything  but  friends  to  their  free  and  careless  playmate. 
Oh  !  Nora !  Nora !  thou  wert  a  sore  trial  to  thy  poor  mother's 
heart !  but  what  a  pity  that  our  first  mother  could  not  have 
remained  contented  in  her  ignorance — then  we  might  all 
have  been  like  thee.  Dear,  darling  Nora  !  We  cannot  re- 
spect thee,  as  the  dictionaries  define  respect,  but  we  can  take 
thee  to  our  hearts  and  hold  thee  there  forever. 

Years  passed,  and  Nora  had  seen  a  dozen  summers.  She 
had  retrieved  her  character  at  school,  in  a  degree,  but  yet  she 
had  never  mastered  the  multiplication  table.  Every  word  of 
a  little  book  of  fairy  tales,  the  daily  object  of  Mrs.  Maylie's 
animadversions,  was  as  familiar  to  her  as  the  robin's  song 
trilled  forth  every  morning  beneath  her  window,  or  the  splash 
of  the  spotted  trout,  that  made  its  home  in  the  brook  at  the 
hill's  foot ;  Watts'  dear,  delightful  children's  melodies,  from 
"  How  doth  the  little  busy  bee,"  to  the  end  of  the  catalogue 
were  on  her  tongue's  tip,  to  say  nothing  of  the  "  Children  of 
the  Wood,"  and  other  ballads,  for  whose  loss  no  modern  rhym- 
ster  can  compensate  ;  but  Nora  could  not  repeat  a  rule  from 
Lindley  Murray.  When  not  engaged  in  homely  acts  of  love 
within  doors,  she  would  wander  from  field  to  field,  through 
meadow  and  copse,  over  hills  and  into  deep,  solemn  dingles, 
until  the  tangled  masses  of  hair  shaded  her  face  like  a  veil 
woven  of  golden  threads,  and  her  joyous  eyes  looked  out 
wonderingly  from  their  sunny  ambush,  like  two  renegade 
stars  that  had  leaped  from  their  azure  mounting  and  set  up 
for  themselves  in  the  amber  shades  of  an  October  wilderness. 
There  she  would  lie,  hours,  beneath  a  shady  tree,  her  straw 


10  THE    UNUSBFUL. 

bonnet  by  her  side,  wild  flowers  scattered  around  her,  and  a 
bar  of  sunlight  resting  on  her  feet,  gazing  into  the  sky  with 
those  large  chamelion  eyes  all  bathed  in  light,  and  with  an 
intensity  belonging  only  to  idle  dreamers  like  herself. 

Time  still  went  on,  and  Nora  was  obliged,  like  her  sisters, 
to  choose  a  profession.  She  said  she  did  not  care ;  they 
might  bind  her  to  whatever  they  chose  ;  though  she  intimated 
that  if  they  could  provide  her  with  a  little  spade  and  a  little 
hoe,  she  should  by  all  means  prefer  horticulture.  Such  an 
enchanting  spot  as  she  would  make  of  the  old  kitchen-garden  ! 
The  beans,  and  cabbages,  and  onions  should  be  uprooted  at 
once.  The  peas  might  remain  —  though  she  would  have  all 
sweetpeas  —  but  all  the  other  weeds  should  give  place  to  the 
beautiful  violets,  and  tiarelals,  and  fringe-wort  that  she  would 
bring  from  the  woods.  And  Nora  May  lie  really  grew  ani- 
mated at  her  own  foolish  plans. 

If  truth  must  be  told,  Mrs.  Maylie  was  more  troubled 
about  the  perverseness  of  her  youngest  daughter  than  if  it 
had  been  any  of  the  others ;  for  never  had  a  mother's  ambition 
a  more  beautiful  corner-stone  for  the  erection  of  its  castles 
than  this.  She  had  first  conceived  Nora  to  be  a  genius,  but 
she  had  waited  long  and  vainly  for  what  she  considered 
genius-like  developments.  Nora  was  unambitious  and  una.- 
suming,  and  all  the  puffing  and  pushing  in  the  world  could 
not  make  her  other  than  what  she  was.  Disappointed  in  her 
first  hopes,  Mrs.  Maylie  had  set  her  heart  on  making  a  teacher 
of  Nora,  but  alas !  Nora's  head  was  not  of  the  right  stuff". 
She  loved  books  dearly,  but  such  books  !  Why  there  was  not, 
if  we  allow  Mrs.  Maylie  to  be  the  judge,  a  useful  one  amons? 
them  all !  She  revelled  in  the  enchanting  luxuries  of  literary 
flower-gatherers:  they  were  the  mirrors  to  reflect  her  own 
heart,  and  the  glorious  world  about  her,  and  her  own  imag- 
inings. But  what  science  for  a  school-teacher !  Mrs.  Maylie 
was  in  a  dilemma.  She  hesitated  a  while,  and  then,  with 
praiseworthy  decision,  seized  it  by  the  only  horn  to  hang  a 
hope  upon.  It  was  decided'that  Nora  Maylie,  in  view  of  her 
tastefulness  and  lack  of  intellectuality,  should  be  a  milliner ; 


THE   UNUSEFUL.  11 

and  she  was  forthwith  sent  to  her  sister's  shop.  Matilda  was 
an  accomplished  business-woman,  giving  a  sharp  eye  to  all 
the  ways  and  means  of  trade,  and  she  perceived  at  once  that 
the  beautiful  face  of  her  young  sister  would  be  a  great  orna- 
ment to  her  front  shop.  Nora  was,  therefore,  placed  by  the 
side  of  the  forewoman,  for  the  express  purpose  of  fascinating 
customers ;  but  human  calculations  are  often  fallacious.  I 
have  intimated  before  (or,  if  I  have  not,  I  should  have  done 
so)  that  my  friend  Nora  had  an  unusual  share  of  artless  good- 
nature, kind  consideration  for  everybody  except  herself,  of 
whom  she  never  thought  a  moment ;  and  hence  she  was  ill- 
fitted  for  the  sphere  in  which  she  seemed  destined  to  act. 
The  very  first  day  of  her  appearance  as  a  tradeswoman,  she 
was  foolish  enough  to  tell  a  sallow-complexioned  lady  that  a 
pea-green  hat,  which  she  was  on  the  point  of  purchasing,  was 
unbecoming;  and  so  the  sale  was  lost.  Another  bonnet 
she  thought  too  heavily  laden  with  ornaments,  and  so  the 
purchaser  ordered  a  large  cluster  of  artificial  flowers,  on 
which  Matilda  had  resolved  to  speculate  a  little,  taken  from 
the  crown.  Matilda  expostulated  and  reasoned,  but  as  the 
simple  sister  only  opened  wide  her  beautiful  eyes  in  astonish- 
ment, and  seemed  utterly  incapable  of  appreciating  the  argu- 
ments, and,  moreover,  as  a  week's  trial  gave  no  symptoms 
of  reformation,  she  was  removed  to  the  back  shop.  But  here 
it  was  but  little  better ;  for  though  she  knotted  ribands  and 
arranged  flowers  with  exquisite  taste,  she  had  a  way  of  soft- 
ening the  drudgery  of  the  business,  not  at  all  pleasing  to  an 
inhabitant  of  Dollar-land.  If  she  had  been  satisfied  to  play 
the  idler  herself,  it  might  have  been  endured  ;  but  Nora  could 
not  bear  to  see  those  half-dozen  necks  bent  with  painful  im- 
movableness  over  bits  of  silk  and  stiffened  muslin ;  and  those 
eight  times  half-dozen  fingers  ply,  ply,  plying  the  needle  con- 
stantly, as  though  the  whole  of  existence  was  comprised  within 
the  contracted  space  enclosed  by  those  four  walls.  And  so 
she  bewildered  the  little  coterie  with  the  things  she  had  seen 
in  her  dreams ;  the  rounded  periods  falling  from  her  bulbous 
lips  slowly  and  with  a  delicious  quietude  that  bewitched  while 


12  THE    UNUSEFUL. 

it  lulled  the  senses.  There  was  an  interested  uplifting  of  eye- 
brows, and  a  relaxing  of  fingers  when  she  spoke ;  and  smiles 
became  more  frequent  and  stitches  less,  until  the;  detrimental 
influence  of  the  unuseful  sister  became  strikingly  apparent. 
The  prudent  Matilda  again  resorted  to  argument;  but  as 
Nora's  strange  obtuseness  on  these  subjects  seemed  uncon- 
conquerable,  she  was,  at  last,  obliged  to  discharge  her  thought- 
less apprentice  to  save  her  establishment  from  ruin.  Poor 
Nora !  she  was  deeply  pained  at  the  distress  her  friends 
evinced  on  her  account;  and  she  begged  to  be  taken  home, 
promising  to  do  anything  and  everything  there,  that  should 
be  required  of  her.  But  this,  as  has  been  already  seen,  was 
no  part  of  Mrs.  Maylie's  plan.  She  had  disposed  of  all  her 
daughters  as  she  desired,  and  if  she  had  manoeuvred  less  than 
mammas  who  seek  for  a  life-establishment,  she  did  not  take 
to  herself  less  credit  for  her  successful  management.  But  in 
the  case  of  her  youngest  daughter  she  had  entirely  failed. 
She  had  resolved  to  make  Nora  a  star,  but  Nora  would  not 
shine.  Indeed,  it  would  have  been  impossible  to  make  her 
think  about  herself  long  enough  to  know  whether  she  shone 
or  not ;  and  the  idea  of  supporting  a  character,  even  for  five 
minutes,  would  have  been  oppressive  to  her.  Slowly  she 
moved  about  the  large,  old  farm-house,  with  a  step  as  noise- 
less as 

"  That  orbed  maiden,  with  white  fire  laden, 
Whom  mortals  call  the  moon," 

cheerful,  and  kind,  and  loving;  but  as  characterless  as  the 
pet-lamb  which  she  led  about  the  garden  by  its  grass-woven 
collar.  Yet  rare  beauties,  rare  for  such  beauty-scorning  peo- 
ple as  the  Maylies,  sprang  up  beneath  her  touch  wherever  she 
turned.  Her  very  presence  seemed  to  infuse  into  everything 
about  her  a  calm,  quiet  loveliness ;  and  there  was  a  soft  re- 
pose in  her  manner,  that  made  her  influence  felt  by  the  most 
bustling  of  the  working-bees  in  that  busiest  of  all  busy  hives. 
Even  Mrs.  Maylie  looked  on,  and  wondered  that  everybody 
should  yield  to  Nora;  and  wondered  that  with  her  lazy  \v;.\- 


THE    UNTTSEFUL.  13 

she  could  accomplish  so  much ;  and  then  sighed  that  what 
was  accomplished  was  of  so  little  use.  To  be  sure,  Nora 
brought  the  easy-chair  to  her  father,  when  he  came  in  tired 
from  the  field  ;  and  smoothed  his  hair  and  kissed  his  cheek ; 
and  then  supported  the  basin  on  his  knee,  while  the  old  man 
bathed  his  heated  brow  with  the  cold  water  she  had  dipped 
from  the  spring ;  but  old  farmer  Maylie  had  been  his  life-long 
accustomed  to  waiting  on  himself,  and  this  was  an  unpar- 
donable waste  of  time.  And  Nora  carried  flowers,  fresh, 
fragrant  flowers,  into  her  mother's  little  bed-room,  and  re- 
arranged the  simple  furniture,  and  put  a  snowy  muslin  curtain 
in  place  of  the  soiled  paper  one,  at  the  window ;  and,  in  short, 
wrought  such  an  entire  change,  that  even  Mrs.  Maylie  her- 
self smiled  involuntarily  whenever  she  opened  the  door, 
though  she  was  always  heard  to  lament,  immediately  after, 
that  such  wondrous  talent  should  be  wasted  on  such  trivial 
pursuits.  But  it  was  with  her  brothers  that  Nora  Maylie  was 
the  all-in-all.  Hers  was  the  only  woman's  influence  that  they 
had  ever  felt ;  for  their  mother  and  elder  sisters  were  too 
much  like  themselves  —  pushing,  elbowing,  jostling,  calculat- 
ing, hurrying,  eating,  and  sleeping  —  both  of  those  last  in  a 
greater  hurry  than  any  of  the  others.  But  coming  into  Nora's 
presence  was  like  entering  a  new  atmosphere.  There  was 
something  superior  —  something  pure,  serene,  refining,  calcu- 
lated to  suppress  turbulent  passions,  and  noisy  tones,  in  her 
soft,  yielding  manner,  and  low,  musical  voice,  that  no  one 
could  resist.  The  bare,  gloomy  parlor,  which  was  never 
opened  but  to  company,  Nora  won  her  mother  into  giving  up 
to  her  direction,  and  soon  it  was  entirely  metamorphosed,  and 
made  a  delightful  withdrawing-room  for  the  family  in  the  cool 
of  the  day.  And  there  Nora  sat  with  her  brothers  :  her  lux- 
uriously developed  figure  so  simply,  yet  so  tastefully  draped) 
as  to  lead  one  to  believe  that  the  addition  of  a  single  fold 
would  mar  its  symmetry ;  the  pearly  whiteness  of  her  skin, 
with  the  most  delicate  rose-tint  on  dewy  lip  and  downy  cheek, 
contrasting  strikingly  with  their  bronzed  labor-stained  faces ; 
her  massy  volumes  of  hair,  folding  plainly  around  a  head 
VOL.  n.  2 


14  THE    UNUSEFCL. 

whose  beauty  would  have  mocked  the  chisel  of  Pygmalion, 
and  gathered  into  a  magnificent  knot  behind ;  her  full,  white, 
exquisitely  moulded  hands  folded  over  a  manly  shoulder,  or 
wandering  like  lost  snow-flakes  among  dark,  stubby  clusters 
of  hair ;  her  breathing  lips  parted,  and  sounds  wandering 
thence  at  dreamy  intervals,  the  messengers  of  a  heart  all 
goodness,  all  simplicity,  all  love.  And  sometimes  she  would 
bring  books,  the  books  she  delighted  in;  and  though  the 
brothers  never  glanced  their  eyes  over  such  pages  themselves, 
Nora's  soulful  voice,  with  its  bird-like  tones  and  eloquent  ca- 
dences, was  the  interpreter  between  the  poet's  heart  and  theirs. 
The  Masters  Maylie  used  to  boast  of  their  business-like  sis- 
ters ;  asserting  that  nobody  could  drive  bargains  like  Rachel 
and  Matilda ;  and  nobody  could  maintain  order  among  the 
rebellious  spirits  of  the  school-room  like  Susan  and  Mary ; 
but  their  hearts  always  fell  back  upon  the  unuseful  Nora,  and 
they  declared,  with  softened  faces  and  gentler  voices,  that  she 
was  good  for  nothing  but  to  love.  But  there  they  were  wrong. 
She  cheered,  she  encouraged,  she  smoothed  difficulties,  she 
soothed  peevishness,  and  softened  heartlessness ;  her  loving 
spirit  stealing  unobserved  on  all,  and  distilling  its  own  dews 
over  the  whole  household.  None  resisted  her  power,  for 
there  was  nothing  in  it  to  resist.  It  was  impalpable,  undis- 
coverable,  and  yet  most  deliciously  felt,  most  unhesitatingly 
acknowledged.  Was  it  a  matter  of  regret  that  Nora  Maylie 
was  an  unuseful  woman  ? 

[I  did  not  promise  you  a  tale,  dear  reader,  (did  I  ?)  when  I 
commenced  this  sketch.  If  you  expected  one,  you  were  mis- 
led by  your  own  imagination,  for  I  thought  only  of  dashing 
off,  with  a  few  simple  strokes,  the  character  of  a  friend,  who, 
whatever  her  faults,  you  will  acknowledge  has  some  virtues. 
If,  however,  you  have  become  sufficiently  interested  in  gentle 
Nora  Maylie,  to  desire  to  hear  more,  I  may  resume  the  thread 
of  my  narrative  at  some  future  period.] 


NORA    MAYLIE. 

"  Do ! " 

Tell  more  of  Nora  Maylie  ?  Ah  yes !  with  pleasure ;  I 
love  dearly  to  think  of  her. 

Please  vacate  that  ottoman,  'Bel,  and  betake  yourself  to  the 
sofa.  My  first  sketch  was  written  on  that,  and  I  have  a  kind 
of  fondness  for  it;  "by  the  same  token,"  as  an  Irish  woman 
would  say,  that  we  love  the  haunts  of  our  childhood.  Be- 
sides, it  is  just  the  right  height ;  allowing  head,  neck,  and  a 
very  small  portion  of  the  shoulder  to  rise  above  the  table. 
That  will  oblige  me  to  sit  straight. 

High-shouldered  ?  Oh  no !  see  how  easily  the  thing  is 
done,  and  without  the  possibility  of  lounging. 

Then  I  have  another  reason  for  affecting  this  ottoman. 
Geniuses  have  queer  notions,  (as  well  as  other  spoiled  chil- 
dren,) and  the  world  pets  and  indulges  them,  and  encourages 
their  eccentricities,  till  oddity  becomes  the  universal  badge  of 
the  tribe,  and  men  reason  something  on  this  wise  : 

All  geniuses  have  queer  notions  ; 
A  has  queer  notions  ; 
Therefore  A  is  a  genius. 

Or  au  contraire : 

All  geniuses  have  queer  notions ; 
A  has  no  queer  notions ; 
Therefore  A  is  not  a  genius. 

Now  I  have  set  my  heart  on  playing  make-believe,  since  1 
am  not  a  genius ;  and  so  I  must  contrive  up  some  little  pecu- 
liarity. Burns  wrote  his  first  things  on  the  air,  while  saun- 
tering over  the  "  banks  and  braes  of  bonny  Doon ;"  and,  seal- 
ing the  light-winged  scrip  to  his  memory,  he  carried  it  home 
18 


IB  NORA    MAYLIK. 

to  copy  from  at  leisure.  It  was  a  very  odd  thing  of  the  Doon 
man  !  Any  common  individual  would  have  written  better  in 
a  quiet  room,  with  the  most  convenient  of  standishes,  a  half- 
dozen  nicely  nibbed  pens,  and  a  quire  of  foolscap  cut  and 
paged,  all  spread  invitingly  before  him.  (And,  between  our 
two  selves,  'Bel,  I  think  /  should  prefer  such  a  room,  genius 
or  no  genius.)  But  here  is  another  case,  quite  in  point.  The 
whilome  proprietary  of  Glenmary  found  the  shadow  of  a 
bridge,  a  wall  impregnable  to  truant  thoughts ;  and  he  has 
made  the  spot,  seldom  looked  upon  but  by  rafters  and  cross- 
beams, and  the  little  winged  people  that  go  among  them  to 
find  summer-lodgings,  classic  ground.  That  bridge  at  Glen- 
mary !  What  a  scrambling  there  will  be  to  see  it  one  of  these 
days! 

And  this  ottoman !  it  is  a  very  trivial  thing,  to  be  sure,  but 
that  is  what  makes  it  important ;  and  I  shall  take  pains  to  let 
it  be  known  that  this  is  my  own  peculiar  property,  leaving  it 
to  be  inferred  that  I  could  not  possibly  write  anywhere  else. 
Then  think  of  your  great-grandchildren,  'Bel,  exhibiting  this 
same  pretty  ottoman  —  the  cover  so  faded  that  you  could  not 
recognize  it,  and  the  hair  peeping  through  a  thousand  crev- 
ices —  think  of  their  exhibiting  it  to  their  gaping  little  ones 
as  —  I  can  no  more,  'Bel;  for,  even  while  these  light  words 
are  on  my  tongue,  there  comes  a  grave  between  my  eye  and 
the  point  it  would  settle  on. 

Wheel  around  the  sofa,  dear,  and  sit  close  beside  me; 
for  the  ugly  vision  has  got  upon  my  heart,  and  you  must  wile 
it  away,  while  I  tell,  whomever  chooses  to  read,  something 
more  of  Nora  Maylie. 

'St,  cousin !  'st !  The  public  is  my  audience  now,  and  will 
care  no  more  for  that  point-lace  of  yours  than  they  would  for 
so  much  "  Lisle  thread." 

Dear  reader,  how  left  we  Nora  Maylie?  Indolent  and 
good-natured,  was  she  not?  Disliking  anything  like  bustle, 
and  resisting  every  attempt  to  be  made  something  of,  with  an 
invisible  strenuousness  that  made  wise  people  marvel  mightily, 
whether  her  nature  were  of  wax  or  adamant  ?  I  think  we  so 


NORA    MAYLIE.  17 

left  her,  and  so  we  find  her ;  as  like  what  she  was  as  yon  sun 
will  be'  to  its  present  self,  when  we,  who  now  glory  in  its 
light,  are  shut  away  from  it  by  the  coffin-lid.  Few  changes 
come  upon  such  characters  as  that  of  the  fair  Nora.  They 
appear  before  us  quietly  and  without  ostentation,  as  the  bright- 
eyed  pansy  unfolds  its  petals  in  the  spring-time ;  and,  like 
that  loveliest  of  lovely  things,  they  live  on,  smiling  in  the 
sunshine,  and  bending  to  the  storm  with  a  pliant  gracefulness 
which  mars  not  their  beauty.  And  yet  those  who  looked 
only  at  outward  circumstances  would  have  said  that  Nora 
Maylie  was  changed  most  entirely.  You  will  recollect  that 
at  sixteen  poor  Nora  was  considered  unfit  to  become  a  milliner 
even,  and  sent  home  in  disgrace  to  do  nothing.  At  eighteen 
she  was  altogether  above  the  necessity  of  doing  anything. 

Mrs.  Maylie  chanced  to  have  a  sister,  who  married  a  for- 
tune, together  with  an  aged  and  gouty  metropolitan ;  and  this 
lady  chanced  to  get  a  glimpse  of  our  fair  Nora.  Instantly 
Mrs.  Maylie  was  made  to  understand  that  she  had  mistaken 
her  daughter's  vocation ;  and  so  the  young  beauty  was  be- 
jewelled, be-flounced,  and  bedizened,  till  it  was  proved  by 
every  possible  experiment,  that,  adorned  or  unadorned,  she 
was  all  the  same,  and  transferred  to  a  fashionable  drawing- 
room.  Everybody  said  that  Nora  Maylie  was  a  very  lucky 
individual,  and  many  a  pretty  maiden  sighed  with  envy  as 
the  proud  mother  recounted  her  darling's  triumphs.  But 
what  thought  the  young  lady  herself?  Alas !  the  perverse- 
ness  of  human  nature !  Nora  longed  for  the  green  woods 
where  she  had  first  dreamed  over  the  gorgeous  creations  of 
minds  as  dreamy  and  as  idle  as  her  own ;  the  silver-toned 
voice  arising  from  the  little  trout-stream  at  the  foot  of  the  hill 
was  forever  in  her  ear,  and  she  was  sure  no  man-made  music 
could  compare  with  it ;  and  there  were  birds  and  flowers,  and 
—  shall  I  tell  you  ?  Those  were  very  homely  tastes  of  Nora 
Maylie's.  The  tame  rabbits,  peaking  their  ears  at  every 
sound ;  old  Mooly,  with  her  crumpled  horns  and  sober,  sensi- 
ble face ;  the  doves  that  used  to  fly  from  the  barn-top  to  her 
bosom ;  the  hens,  with  their  domestic,  motherly  ways ;  and 

VOL.  II.  2* 


19  NORA    MAYLJE. 

the  geese,  with  their  pretty  necks  and  tea-party  voices  —  all 
these  were  to  poor  Nora  as  so  many  lost  friends,  whose  places 
could  not  be  supplied  by  the  simpering  things  in  stays  and 
broadcloth  that  flocked  to  do  her  homage. 

And  were  there  any  other  home  attractions  for  Nora  than 
these,  and  her  own  kin  ?  Anything  for  which  she  would 
have  resigned  her  envied  position,  with  all  the  eagerness  of  a 
pent-up  stream  leaping  every  barrier,  and  bounding  away  to 
the  ocean's  bosom  ? 

You  may  never  have  heard  of  Will  Waters,  a  handsome, 
dark-eyed,  roguish-looking,  care-for-naught  sort  of  a  fellow, 
who  would  rake  up  more  hay  in  four  hours  than  anybody  else 
could  between  twilight  and  twilight,  and  give  the  rest  of  his 
time  to  rod  or  gun,  or  some  other  heathenish  amusement. 
Was  there  a  dance,  Will  Waters  was  in  the  midst,  leading 
out  the  brightest  of  the  blushing  damsels ;  was  there  a  husk- 
ing, it  was  an  entire  failure  without  Will  Waters'  songs ;  and 
at  fourth-of-July  orations  and  stump  speeches,  and  other  move- 
ments for  the  public  good,  nobody  could  hold  a  candle  to  clever 
Will  Waters.  Yet  (great  men  will  have  their  failings)  Will 
was  a  wild  fellow,  very  wild ;  and  people  said  he  was  not  to 
be  depended  upon  in  the  least.  Nobody  could  tell  what  bad 
things  he  had  done  or  was  in  danger  of  doing ;  and  everybody 
loved  him  for  his  frank  heartsomeness,  his  ready  wit,  and  his 
gay  good-nature ;  but  still,  it  was  the  general  impression  that 
Will  Waters,  though  a  "  very  promising  young  man,"  would 
somehow  manage  to  seduce  his  nature  into  breaking  its 
promise. 

There  was  a  village  between  Mr.  Waters'  farm  and  Mr. 
Maylie's ;  and  Will's  handsome  face  was  no  stranger  to  tho 
village  beauties,  who  had  wasted  more  smiles  on  him  than 
often  burnish  a  coat  of  country  finish  ;  but  Will  had  somehow 
dodged  the  whole  artillery  and  passed  on.  Away  in  the 
woods,  skirting  fair  fields  of  pale  green  maize  and  dancing 
flax,  so  proud  of  its  light-poised  gem  of  blue,  Will  Waters 
was  destined  to  another  trial ;  and  this  time  the  weapon  was 
nointed  by  a  more  celebrated  marksman  than  himself. 


NORA   MAYLIE.  19 

The  sun  was  just  scattering  his  last  grains  of  gold-dust 
upon  the  spotted  alders  that  leaned  over  the  trout-stream  at 
the  foot  of  "  the  Maylie  hill,"  when  Will  Waters,  his  fowl- 
ing-piece over  his  shoulder,  and  his  dog  by  his  side,  leaped 
the  chattering  brook;  and,  making  a  great  crackling  and 
crashing  among  the  underbush,  landed  headlong  upon  a  vel- 
vety bank,  hemmed  in  by  witch-hazel,  blackberry  bushes,  and 
the  white-flowering  dog-wood.  The  rude  entree  was  occa- 
sioned by  an  officious  grape-vine  that  had  taken  a  fancy  to  put 
its  arms  around  the  young  man's  foot,  coarse-booted  though  it 
was ;  but  Will  Waters  was  in  a  very  proper  position,  consider- 
ing all  things.  Beneath  the  deep  shade  of  a  broad-leaved 
bass-wood,  whose  peculiar  perfume  made  the  air  around 
heavy  with  richness,  appeared,  in  wondering  amazement,  the 
mistress  of  this  sylvan  drawing-room.  A  bob-o'link  had 
come  up  from  his  home  among  the  sedges  over  the  brook, 
and  was  perking  his  pretty  bill,  and  smoothing  his  plumage 
with  a  knowing  impudence,  directly  before  her  face  ;  but 
quick  was  the  exit  of  Master  Robert  when  wild  Will  Waters 
became  an  actor  in  the  scene.  A  scarce  adult  mouser,  fast 
asleep  on  its  mistress'  knee,  opened  its  yellow  eyes  in  affright, 
and  scampered  off  as  fast  as  its  velvet  feet  would  carry  it ;  and 
a  crow  that  had  lighted  on  a  limb  above,  and  sat  in  silence, 
hopefully  civilized  by  the  nearness  of  the  white-browed  divi- 
nity, spread  his  black  wings  and  rushed  skyward  with  a  caw ! 
caw  !  which  threw  Madam  Echo  into  an  ecstasy  of  noisy  fear. 
But  the  fair  human  joined  not  at  all  in  the  commotion.  True, 
she  rose  to  her  feet,  but  not  with  that  twitch  and  jerk  which 
many  another  would  have  adopted ;  she  rose  with  the  aston- 
ished dignity  of  one  who  intends  to  say  by  the  movement,  "  I 
am  quite  superior  to  being  annoyed  by  you,  but  I  should  like 
to  know  how  far  your  impudence  will  carry  you ;"  and  her 
large,  changeable  eyes  were  opened  to  their  greatest  width. 

"  The  position  could  have  been  no  more  appropriate  had  it 
been  of  my  own  choosing,  O  fairest  thou  of  witching  Syl- 
vans!"  exclaimed  the  youth,  springing  to  his  knee,  and  re- 
peating the  salaam. 


20  NORA    MAYL1E. 

The  lady  blushed  a  little,  and  looked  as  though  not  quite 
sure  of  what  she  ought  to  do  in  such  a  case,  and  so  she  did 
nothing;  though  her  face  grew  talkative  with  its  declaration 
of  amused  curiosity. 

"  Is  it  not  enough  that  you  have  snares  at  your  door-way, 
nymph  most  beautiful,"  continued  wild  Will,  "  but  must  he 
who  enters  your  charmed  circle  find  the  chains  rivetted  about 
him  forever  ?  " 

"  Nay,"  returned  the  lady  with  a  delicious  smile,  that  be- 
lied her  mocking  words,  "  nay,  poor  youth,  I  pity  thy  mishap, 
and  release  thee  without  a  ransom ;  depart  in  peace  ! " 

"  Bid  the  poor  charmed  thing  be  free,  that  is  beneath  the 
eye  of  the  basilisk,"  exclaimed  Will  in  a  tone  of  mock  mourn- 
fulness. 

"  Be  free  !"  repeated  the  lady  ;  "  the  basilisk  withdraws  his 
gaze ;"  and  she  gathered  up  her  scattered  implements  and  with 
a  slight  curtsey,  was  turning  away. 

"  Nay,  lady,"  exclaimed  the  hunter  in  an  altered  tone, 
springing  to  his  feet  and  shouldering  his  fowling-piece,  "  I 
intruded  unwittingly  upon  your  sanctum  ;  and  though,  by  your 
leave,  I  cannot  regret  the  accident,  you  must  not  abandon  it ; 
for  see  !  I  am  gone." 

As  he  spoke,  Will  stepped  back  a  few  paces ;  but  how  he 
could  consider  himself  gone,  is  a  query  in  my  mind  to  this 
day ;  for  there  was  a  good  yard  of  the  golden-hued  moss 
between  him  and  the  blackberry  bushes  and  Co.,  which  pali- 
saded the  pretty  retreat.  The  lady,  however,  must  have 
believed  him,  for  she  turned  round  very  quietly,  and  fixed  her 
eye  on  pussy,  which  was  peeping  her  little  head  from  a  clump 
of  thorns  that  threatened  to  disfigure  her  coat  most  sadly. 
Will  Waters  retreated  slowly,  until  the  folded  leaf  of  the 
dog- wood  touched  the  hem  of  his  hunting-frock;  and  then, 
with  an  air  of  the  most  respectful  deference,  he  ventured  a 
remark  on  the  beauty  of  the  wood-land  scene.  The  lady,  in 
common  civility,  could  but  answer ;  and  Will  replied ;  and 
then  the  lady's  voice  gave  out  a  bar  of  music,  which  Will 
Waters  could  not  allow  to  close  the  interview,  and  so 


NORA    MAYLIE.  21 

I  should  not  like  to  tell  you  how  much  time  passed,  dear 
reader,  for  it  was  shockingly  imprudent  in  NORA  MAYLIE  to 
allow  herself  to  be  so  beguiled.  Will  Waters,  however,  un- 
derstood his  cue  well  enough  to  lean  upon  his  fowling-piece ; 
and  Nora  turned  her  back  upon  the  bass-wood  tree,  and  em- 
ployed her  fingers  in  making  baskets  of  its  leaves.  The 
twilight  was  putting  on  its  grayest  hue,  when  Nora  recol- 
lected that  she  should  be  returning  home;  and  though  the 
youth  did  not  venture  to  accompany  her  in  person,  his  eyes 
followed  her  every  step  across  the  fields. 

Will  Waters  made  two  or  three  ineffectual  attempts  to  get 
up  a  whistle  on  his  way  homeward  that  evening ;  and  once  he 
struck  out  into  a  song  very  clamorously ;  but  he  was  so  ab- 
sent-minded as  to  break  off  in  the  middle  of  a  word,  which 
word  is  waiting  for  its  other  half  to  this  day. 

The  very  next  evening  Nora  Maylie  was  again  surprised 
in  her  rustic  bower ;  but,  as  the  young  hunter  came  in  a  dif- 
ferent manner,  and,  moreover,  as  he  made  a  very  character- 
istic apology  (prettily  impudent)  for  coming  at  all,  the  lady 
did  not  consider  it  necessary  to  rise  from  her  rich  cushions. 
Neither  did  the  bob-'link  fly  away — instead,  he  gave  out  a 
glorious  gush  of  music;  pussy  opened  her  eyes  lazily  and 
immediately  closed  them  again ;  and  a  good-natured  little 
thrush,  that  saw  fit  to  make  itself  quite  at  home  there,  went 
hopping  along  on  the  ground,  and  never  once  turned  its  eye 
to  inquire  whether  the  intruder  came  for  it  or  its  neighbors. 
Very  well  might  humble  browny  manifest  such  indifference ; 
for  wild  Will's  step  had  an  exceedingly  innocent  sound  to  it, 
scarce  rustling  a  leaf,  much  less  presuming  on  the  entertain- 
ment which,  by  the  aid  of  the  grape-vine,  he  had  furnished  for 
woodland  edification  the  day  previous.  I  know  not  how  it 
was,  but  Nora  Maylie  took  the  intrusion  something  in  the 
spirit  of  Mrs.  Thrush,  whose  back  of  plebeian  brownness 
never  ruffled  a  feather ;  and  so  wild  Will  Waters  leaned  his 
gun  against  the  bass-wood,  and  placed  himself  at  the  lady's 
feet  without  the  ceremony  of  asking.  Will  Waters  had  a 
dashing  way  of  talking  which  Nora  had  never  heard  before, 


22  NOBA   MAYL1E. 

and  so  she  decided  in  her  own  mind  that  it  was  dramatic, 
Shaksperian,  or  something  of  that  sort ;  while  Nora's  voice 
reminded  the  young  hunter  of  the  whisper  of  the  south-wind, 
dallying  with  the  silver-lined  blades  of  grass,  on  whose  wav- 
ing tips  he  had  often  been  borne  away  to  the  land  of  dreams. 

That  our  young  friends  were  mutually  pleased  with  each 
other,  was  very  certain ;  and  that  their  friends  would  be  mu- 
tually displeased,  should  the  acquaintance  chance  to  ripen  into 
anything  more  than  common  friendship,  was  quite  as  certain. 
As  far  as  farmer  May  lie  was  known,  it  was  thought  that  his 
handsome  daughter  would  make  an  unprofitable  wife ;  and 
Mrs.  Maylie  would  have  been  struck  with  consternation  at  the 
thought  of  committing  her  poor  child,  with  her  lamentable 
deficiencies,  to  the  keeping  of  such  a  dashing,  careless  fellow, 
as  wild  Will  Waters.  But  young  people  never  will  fall  in 
love  prudently,  and  this  second  interview  decided  the  fate  of 
Will  and  Nora.  To  be  sure,  they  did  not  meet  then  nor  af- 
terwards as  lovers,  but  they  did  meet,  nevertheless ;  and  two 
young  people  do  not  go  every  day  to  the  same  spot,  and  listen 
to  each  other's  voices,  and  look  into  each  other's  faces,  and 
read  from  each  other's  hearts  to  no  purpose.  No,  no !  the 
temple  that  God  made,  the  solemn  old  wood,  is  a  dangerous 
place  for  beauty  and  manliness,  that  should  not  love,  to  meet 
in.  There  is  so  much  of  love  in  every  wind-moved  pulse 
which  beats  there,  that  the  heart  must  own  a  triple  crust  of 
worldliness  to  brave  its  influence. 

At  last  Mrs.  May  lie's  eyes  became  opened  to  the  truth,  but 
she  was  saved  the  trouble  of  expostulation  by  the  timely  in- 
terference of  her  wealthy  sister ;  and  so  Nora  was  borne  away 
to  other  scenes.  Before  she  went,  however,  the  moon  wit- 
nessed a  very  solemn  meeting  between  herself  and  Will 
Waters ;  there  were  vows,  and  tears,  and  comforting  words, 
and  baseless  castle-building  enough  to  occupy  long  hours ;  and 
then,  with  promises,  the  fiftieth  time  repeated,  and  other  words 
whose  meaning  was  derived  from  the  breath  that  bore  them, 
the  lovers  parted. 

"  Forever  ?  " 

We  shall  see. 


NORA    MAYLIE. 


23 


Was  it  strange,  then,  that  Nora  May  lie  did  not  love  the 
city  ?  that  her  aunt's  splendid  drawing-room  was  a  prison  to 
her,  and  the  mustachioed  things,  caught  in  the  trap  the  sharp 
lady  was  setting  for  her  benefit,  a  living  annoyance  ?  There 
was  one  thing  in  Nora's  favor ;  she  had  an  inexhaustible  fund 
of  good  feeling.  She  could  never  bear  to  see  even  her  enemy 
(Nora  was  not  conscious  of  having  one.  however)  unhappy, 
and  so  she  could  not  be  thoroughly  unhappy  herself.  While 
we  feel  an  interest  in  a  single  living  being,  we  are  many  a 
good  league  from  misery.  Nora  felt  an  interest  in  a  great 
many.  Her  aunt  treated  her  with  habitual  kindness,  and  for 
her  she  had  gratitude ;  her  gouty  uncle  was  more  like  a  bear 
than  a  human  being,  and  for  him  she  had  pity ;  a  great  many 
persons  showed  her  infinite  respect,  for  which  she  returned  an 
overflowing  measure  of  the  same  with  a  mingling  of  some- 
thing warmer ;  and  the  few  that  loved  her  she  loved  with  all 
her  heart.  Oh  no !  Nora  was  not  miserable,  but  she  was  sad 
—  sometimes  very  sad ;  for  her  thoughts,  in  gayety  or  lone- 
liness, were  full  of  Will  Waters  and  her  own  quiet  home. 
Nora  was  still  determined  not  to  be  made  anything  of. 

And  Will?    What  of  him? 

He  turned  from  Nora  Maylie  on  the  evening  of  their  last 
meeting;  and,  standing  beneath  the  bass-wood  where  he  had 
first  met  her,  he  spread  open  his  heart  and  character  to  his 
own  inspection.  Long  and  serious  was  the  examination ;  and 
then,  with  the  centred  light  of  his  proud  eye  mocking  the 
stars  above  him,  his  fine  face  full  of  animation,  and  his  head 
elevated  with  a  consciousness  of  his  own  powers,  he  bounded 
from  the  love-charmed  circle,  leaped  the  creek,  and  bent  his 
way  homeward.  Determination  was  in  his  firm  step,  and 
hope  glanced  from  every  lineament  of  his  face.  Mr.  Waters 
had  measured  off  an  elder  son's  portion  a  few  years  previous, 
and  why  might  not  Will  hope  the  same  favor  ?  The  next 
morning  he  asked,  and  was  refused.  Moreover,  he  was  made 
to  understand  that  if  he  married  "  that  shiftless  Maylie  girl," 
he  should  not  have  a  cent  "  to  the  longest  day  he  lived." 

It  was  very   impolitic  as   well   as   d-srespectful    in  Will 


5M  NORA    MAYUE. 

Waters  to  make  the  answer  he  did;  and,  for  one,  I  do  not 
blame  the  old  gentleman  for  snubbing  him  for  it.  But  Will 
had  never  been  used  to  such  things,  and  he  had  no  idea  of 
being  made  a  little  boy  of,  in  his  three-and-twentieth  summer ; 
and  so,  after  a  few  more  words  hotly  peppered  with  anger,  he 
turned  on  his  heel  and  walked  away. 

"  A  year  and  a  half  have  I  worked  on  this  farm  since  I 
might  have  been  doing  for  myself,  and  all  for  nothing,"  mut- 
tered Will,  as  his  eye  wandered  over  the  closely-shaven  mea- 
dows, and  the  fields  of  grain,  with  their  upright  sheaves, 
many  of  which  had  been  bound  by  his  own  hand. 

"  Well,  I  have  you  yet,"  and  he  stretched  out  his  strong 
arm,  and  regarded  it  for  a  moment  very  affectionately ;  then 
reaching  it  above  his  head,  he  twisted  off  a  heavy  bough  and 
lodged  it  far  away  in  the  meadow. 

"  Ha !  ha  ! "  laughed  Will,  regarding  his  own  feat  with  the 
most  decided  approbation,  and  clapping  his  hands  together, 
"  shall  I  beg  of  an  old  man,  whose  acres  are  his  all,  with  such 
things  as  these  to  carve  out  a  fortune  with  ?  No,  no !  Will 
Waters  is  not  a  beggar  yet ;"  and  he  trudged  on  right  manfully. 

That  winter  there  was  one  axe  rang  from  the  woods  from 
dawn  till  nine  in  the  morning,  and  from  four  till  darkness 
made  the  trees  almost  invisible  ;  and  the  remaining  hours  the 
axe  was  sheltered  beneath  a  little  wood-shed  beside  the  vil- 
lage school-house,  while  its  owner  presided  within.  Every- 
body remarked  that  a  wonderful  change  had  come  over  Will 
Waters.  And  what  was  to  be  his  reward  ?  How  was  fair 
Nora  Maylie  ?  Did  she  stand  the  winter's  test  of  gayety  ?  At 
first,  though  surrounded  by  a  crowd  of  admirers,  she  seemed 
to  have  no  preference ;  all  passed  alike  before  her  ;  but,  ere 
winter  set  in,  Nora  had  grown  partial.  One  by  one,  her 
suitors  stood  back  for  the  favorite,  till  Nora  scarce  ever  ap- 
peared with  anybody  but  young  Horace  Dacre.  It  was  said 
that  there  was  an  engagement  in  the  case,  that  the  seal  of  tho 
ring  would  soon  be  appended ;  and  Nora  took  no  pains  to 
deny  the  charge.  Neither  did  Nora's  aunt.  On  the  receipt 
of  a  letter  from  her  sister,  Mrs.  Maylie  looked  up  her  best 


NORA    MAYLIE.  2O 

cap,  and  went  into  the  extravagance  of  a  new  silk  gown.  The 
next  she  heard  was  that  Dacre  was  married,  and  that  her 
daughter  had  had  a  very  narrow  escape — she  was  a  bride's 
maid.  How  angry  aunt,  and  mother,  and  Rachel,  and  Matilda, 
and  Susan,  and  Mary  were  with  Nora !  and  how  Nora,  and 
the  sly  bridegroom,  and  shy  bride,  congratulated  themselves 
on  the  success  of  their  provoking  ruse  $  amour.  Oh !  there 
must  have  been  a  spice  of  evil  about  Nora,  notwithstanding 
her  quiet  ways.  Two  thirds  of  the  winter  had  gone,  when 
the  astonishing  denouement  took  place ;  and  there  was  a  most 
glorious  Asking-season  well-nigh  lost  through  this  silliest  of 
girlish  freaks.  Nothing  daunted,  however,  the  manoeuvrer 
resolved  to  gather  up  the  scattered  fragments  of  time  still  left 
her ;  and,  to  prevent  imposition,  she  took  the  cards  into  her 
own  hands ;  and  she  played  so  adroitly  that  a  fortune  soon 
lay  at  Nora's  feet.  Nora  would  have  put  it  beneath  her  feet, 
had  she  consulted  only  her  own  feelings  on  the  occasion — 
not  that  she  had  any  particular  dislike  for  a  fortune,  but  there 
was  a  certain  incumbrance  upon  it  that  she  did  not  like.  So 
Nora,  like  the  foolish  girl  that  she  was,  refused  the  whole. 

But  as  fast  as  Nora  said  no,  Nora's  aunt  said  yes  ;  and  as 
the  affirmative  could  boast  superiority  in  years,  Mr.  Lever 
(the  lady's  principal  objection  to  the  fortune)  was  inclined  to 
think  that  the  affirmative  had  it.  Still  Nora  was  obstinate, 
and  her  aunt  was  obstinate,  and  Mr.  Lever  was  obstinate ;  so 
it  was  thought  proper  to  have  Mrs.  Maylie's  counsel. 

Early  in  the  spring,  the  dressmaker,  the  milliner,  and  the 
two  school-mistresses,  were  called  home  to  put  the  farm-house 
in  order  for  the  reception  of  important  guests.  It  was  reported 
far  and  wide,  that  Nora  May  lie  had  come  home  to  be  mar- 
ried ;  a  version  of  matters  in  which  popular  gossip  invented 
less  than  the  lady's  own  friends.  When  they  told  Will 
Waters,  he  smiled  contemptuously ;  and  when  they  told  his 
father,  he  smiled  too,  and  said  he  hoped  his  son  would  re- 
turn to  reason  now.  When,  however,  Nora  came  home, 
accompanied  by  her  aunt  and  Mr.  Lever,  the  face  of  Will 
Waters  grew  anxious,  and  his  smile  lost  its  complacency. 

VOL.  n.  3 


26  NORA    MAVLIE. 

And  now  Mr.  Lever  had  plenty  of  assistants  in  his  wooing, 
and  things  would  have  gone  on  swimmingly,  had  not  Nora 
possessed  the  most  provoking  of  pliable  natures.  Had  she 
only  stormed,  and  declared  that  she  would  sooner  die,  that  they 
might  kill  her,  but  she  would  never  commit  such  horrid  per- 
jury, there  would  have  been  some  hope  ;  but  when  Nora,  with 
her  sweet,  low  voice,  repeated  every  day,  "  it  cannot  be. 
mother,"  Mrs.  Maylie's  heart  grew  faint,  and  she  was  almost 
tempted  to  give  up  the  contest.  Her  sister,  however,  was 
more  persevering ;  and,  finally,  affairs  were  brought  to  a  crisis. 
The  father  was  called  in,  and,  being  urged  on  all  sides,  he  at 
last  resorted  to  authority. 

"  Obey !  or  you  are  no  child  of  mine  ! "  was  the  stern  pa- 
rental injunction. 

Poor  Nora !  Should  she  accept  the  splendor  that  was  daz- 
zling all  eyes  but  hers,  and  buy  the  favor  of  those  she  loved 
most  dearly  ?  or  should  she  go  forth  upon  the  world  an  out- 
cast, orphaned  by  worse  than  death,  friendless  and  penny- 


"  You  shall  have  my  answer  to-morrow,"  was  all  that  Nora 
said. 

The  sun  had  just  looked  his  last  good-night,  and  many  a 
bright  cluster  of  golden  rays  was  loitering  in  its  way  heaven- 
ward, when  Nora  Maylie,  attired  in  her  simplest  muslin,  and 
with  the  little  straw  hat  she  had  worn  the  summer  previous 
tied  under  her  chin,  stole  from  the  seclusion  of  her  own  cham- 
ber, and  glided  like  a  spirit  across  the  fields.  When  she  had 
reached  the  old  trysting-spot,  hedged  in  by  the  blackberries 
and  witch-hazel,  she  pushed  aside  the  bushes,  and  knelt  upon 
the  roots  of  the  now  budding  bass-wood.  Then  she  arose  and 
passed  on.  She  crossed  the  brook  on  the  stepping  stones, 
and  hurried  over  the  springy  ground  beyond,  until  her  feet 
were  bathed  in  the  cold  draught  held  by  the  deceitful  soil  ; 
and  on  she  went,  still  more  hurriedly,  until  her  father's  broad 
lands  all  lay  behind  her.  Climbing  a  fence,  Nora  was  just 
losing  herself  among  the  stately  patriarchs  of  the  forest,  when 
she  heard  her  own  name  pronounced,  in  tones  more  of  won- 


NORA    MAYLIE.  27 

der  than  gladness,  and  she  stood  face  to  face  with  Will 
Waters.  • 

'•  I — was — was  going  to  the  village,"  remarked  the  lady, 
her  large  eyes  turning  doubtfully  to  her  lover's,  and  veiling 
themselves  in  alarmed  perplexity  at  the  coldness  they  en- 
countered. 

Nora  did  not  know  how  many  tongues  had  been  busy  with 
the  ear  of  Will  Waters. 

"  I  will  not  detain  you,"  was  the  answer,  and  with  an  iron- 
ical smile  and  a  low  bow  the  young  man  vacated  the  path. 

"  But  I  hoped  —  to — to  meet — you  there."  Nora  stam- 
mered excessively,  and  the  color  went  and  came  upon  her 
cheek  with  strange  precipitancy. 

"Me!" 

"  Is  it  so  very  strange,  then  ?  I  have  gone  down  to  the 
knoll  by  the  brook  many  a  time  to  meet  you,  Will." 

"  Ay ;  but  then  you  were " 

"  Then  I  was  happy  in  home  and  friends — now  I  have 
neither — you  have  taught  me — not  one" 

"  Nora  ?  " 

\l  You  may  as  well  know  it,  Will — though  it  matters  but 
little  now.  I  came  out  to  tell  you  that,  without  your  protec- 
tion, I  have  nowhere  to  go!  I  came  to  ask  your  advice  — 
your — your — " 

"Without  my  protection,  Nora?  I  do  not  well  see  how 
that  can  be ;  but,  were  you  ten  times  dyed  in  falsehood,  you 
should  not  ask  it  in  vain  ;"  and  the  young  man's  arms  were 
extended,  as  though,  if  their  shelter  could  yet  be  accepted, 
they  should  be  a  shield  that  none  of  the  ills  of  life  could  pene- 
trate. 

Nora  did  not  draw  back,  nor  yet  advance,  for  she  was 
stricken  to  the  heart  by  this  suspicion,  where  she  had  ex- 
pected the  confidence  and  sympathy  so  much  needed.  The 
large,  round  tears  broke  from  their  dark-fringed  enclosure,  and 
followed  each  other  silently,  gemming  her  palpitating  bod- 
dice  ;  while  the  lady  answered,  almost  in  a  whisper,  "  I  do 
not  ask  it  now,  Will !  Oh  !  you  are  so,  so  changed  ! " 


S«  NORA    MAYLIE. 

"  It  is  not  /,  Nora — look  into  your  own  heart  if  you  would 
know  where  the  change  lies.  But,  perhaps — perhaps  —  " 
and  now  there  was  a  strange  eagerness  in  the  tones  of  Will 
Waters — "  if  there  should  be  a  mistake,  Nora !  if  they  have 
belied  you !  if " 

A  sudden  flash  of  joy  lighted  up  the  face  of  the  young  man. 
His  supposition  became  at  once  reality.  He  had  been  a  fool, 
and  she  —  he  did  not  say  what ;  but  his  arms  were  a  little 
farther  advanced  and  folded  over,  and  Nora  Maylie  lay  within 
them.  Not  a  word  of  explanation  was  necessary  now,  for 
heart  was  beating  against  heart,  and  they  told  their  own  true 
story.  But  words  were  spoken,  nevertheless,  so  low  that  the 
light-winged  zephyr  sitting  upon  the  lip  could  scarcely  hear 
them ;  yet  they  proved,  beyond  a  doubt,  that  Will  Waters 
and  Nora  Maylie  were  both  unchanged.  And  so  —  and  so  — 

We  are  intruders,  dear  reader;  let  these  foolish  lovers  have 
the  next  hour  to  themselves. 

The  hour  is  passed,  and  Will  Waters  and  Nora  are  beneath 
the  bass-wood. 

"  And  if  you  cannot  effect  this  most  cruel  compromise,  dear 
Nora,  you  will  meet  me  here  at  ten  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  I  will." 

"  Do  not  promise  them  too  much,  Nora ;  do  not  quite  cut 
off  all  hope.  You  are  right,  I  suppose ;  I  know  you  must  be  ; 
but  it  is  a  hard  thing  for  me  to  consent  to.  I  would  not  have 
believed  that  I  ever  could." 

"  You  would  not  but  that  it  is  right,  Will." 

See  that  touchingly  sweet  smile  accompanying  the  lady's 
words !  Will  Waters  cannot  resist  it,  and  he  acknowledges, 
with  almost  idolatrous  zeal,  who  taught  him  right ;  and  so, 
with  mutual  blessings,  they  part. 

The  compromise  ? 

Nora  had  decided  that  her  friends  had  no  right  to  force  her 
into  a  marriage  which  her  heart  did  not  sanction,  and  there- 
fore that  she  ought  to  resist  it  firmly.  On  the  other  side,  as 
the  bestowal  of  her  hand  on  Will  Waters  involved  no  point 
of  conscience,  obedience  was  her  first  duty.  This  may  sound 


NORA   MAYLIE.  29 

like  cold  reasoning;  but  it  was  arranged  with  many  tears, 
even  with  sobs,  there  in  the  little  chamber,  and  it  was  whis- 
pered with  anything  but  coldness  in  those  dear  old  woods. 
And,  strange  enough,  the  gentleman  consented  !  Notwith- 
standing wild  Will  had  quarrelled  with  his  own  father,  and 
for  six  months  had  been  in  the  neighborhood  of  his  home 
without  once  stepping  his  foot  over  the  threshold,  he  could 
not  but  consent  to  a  measure  which  seemed  so  much  a  matter 
of  course  to  Nora,  that  he  was  ashamed  to  offer  more  than  a 
score  of  objections. 

The  next  morning,  while  yet  the  clock  was  on  the  stroke 
of  ten,  Nora  Maylie  pushed  aside  the  witch-hazel  and  dog- 
wood, and  placed  her  hand  within  that  of  Will  Waters ;  a 
mute  acknowledgment  that  he  was  her  last  and  only  friend, 
and  Will  accepted  the  sacred  gift  as  a  man  should  do.  Care- 
fully he  led  her  down  to  the  roadside,  where  a  carriage  stood 
waiting  them,  lifted  her  to  a  seat,  and  they  drove  away  to  the 
village. 

There  were  tears  in  the  eyes  of  the  fair  bride  who  stood  in 
parson  Lee's  little  parlor  that  morning ;  and  a  proud,  happy 
resoluteness  in  the  whole  air  and  manner  of  the  bridegroom, 
softened  and  subdued  by  an  appreciation  of  the  touching 
trustfulness  that  had  possessed  him  of  that  quivering  hand. 
And  so  they  went  forth,  they  two.  with  but  the  rewards  of 
his  winter's  toil  to  buy  them  bread,  and  with  scarce  a  voice 
to  cheer  them  tm  their  way.  How  everybody  laughed  when 
it  was  reported  that  Will  Waters  had  borne  his  unuseful 
bride  to  the  wilds  of  the  far  west !  As  though  Will  Waters, 
with  his  strong  arm  and  strong  spirit,  and  his  sweet  Nora,  with 
her  loving  heart,  could  not  make  a  pathway  for  themselves 
in  the  wilderness ! 

Please  make  me  another  pen,  'Bel;  this  story  drags 
shockingly. 

Not  finish  it,  did  you  say  ?  Why,  people  will  think  they 
starved  there  in  the  woods,  or  the  wolves  ate  them  up,  or,  at 
least,  that  they  encountered  the  ague  and  fever. 

"  Which  is  not  true  ?" 

VOL.  II.  3* 


d"  NORA    MAYLIE. 

Which  is  not  true.  I  have  called  Nora  Maylie  my  friend 
and  so  she  is,  though  we  did  not  quite  grow  up  together 
The  first  time  that  I  ever  saw  her  was  on  the  morning  of  her 
marriage.  The  holy  man  had  just  put  the  "amen"  to  his 
prayer,  when  one  whom  we  both  love,  'Bel,  sent  me  to  the 
village  with  a  pretty  bridal  bouquet,  and  I  had  the  honor  of 
presenting  it  myself.  The  kiss  on  my  cheek,  and  the  light 
touch  of  that  soft  hand  upon  my  head,  was  quite  enough  to 
secure  my  little  heart  forever,  even  though  I  had  not  loved 
Will  Waters  as  children  usually  love  those  who  pet  them 
most.  My  mother  took  the  young  couple  into  the  family, 
sympathized  with  and  advised  them,  and  wafted  many  a 
prayer  westward  after  they  had  gone. 

We  never  heard  that  any  bad  luck  happened  to  Will  Wa- 
ters, but  somehow  no  news  came  of  his  having  planted  a  city, 
or  given  his  name  to  a  village,  or  of  having  gained  emolument 
to  himself;  and  so  it  was  generally  supposed  that  the  young 
couple  were  having  plenty  of  time  to  repent  their  folly. 

It  was  eight  years  last  spring  since  Will  and  Nora  were 
married,  and  a  year  this  summer  since  I  saw  them.  I  never 
forgot  Nora's  sweet  bridal  face ;  and  when,  by  the  aid  of  a 
dashing  steamer,  I  had  measured  nearly  all  the  links  in  the 
great  northern  chain  of  waters,  you  may  be  assured  that  I 
was  quite  willing  to  look  upon  a  person  that  I  had  seen  be- 
fore. And  after  jolting  all  day  in  a  big,  springless  wagon, 
and  sleeping  at  night  in  a  villanous  garret,  lighted  by  four 
panes  of  glass,  that  would  not  shove,  sharing  my  breathing, 
stuff  with  a  dozen  others  —  pah!  I  will  never  subject  myseli 
to  such  things  again,  'Bel ! 

"Ah?" 

Perhaps  I  would  for  a  sight  of  those  glorious  old  woods, 
and  magnificent  prairies  —  nothing  short.  But,  as  I  was 
saying,  after  all  this,  you  may  well  suppose  that  I  would  be 
grateful  for  any  corner,  however  small,  where  the  fresh  air  1 
revelled  in  by  day,  might  not  be  wholly  shut  from  me  at 
night. 

We  expected  to  find  our  friends  in  rather  low  circumstances, 


NORA    MAYLIE.  Jl 

and  so  we  inquired  at  every  tog  hovel  for  Mr.  Waters,  and 
every  time  were  answered,  "  farther  on."  Everybody  seemed 
familiar  with  the  name.  We  had  left  the  last  of  these  west- 
ern edifices  about  five  miles  behind,  when  suddenly  our  road 
changed  its  character ;  and  from  having  "  two  wheels  in  the 
gutter  and  two  in  the  air,"  our  clumsy  vehicle  righted  itself, 
and  jogged  along  on  all  fours  with  very  decent  sobriety.  At 
the  same  time,  we  foand  ourselves  in  a  fine  clearing.  A  robe 
of  variegated  gold  and  green,  flounced  by  a  fold  of  silver  in 
the  shape  of  a  creek,  with  here  and  there  groups  of  trees 
looking  into  it,  was  spread  out  to  our  view ;  and  we  turned 
questioning  glances  on  each  other,  wondering  if  this  could  be 
the  possession  of  Will  Waters.  There  was  an  air  of  thrift 
about  it  that  said  nay ;  while  many  a  little  tasteful  arrange- 
ment—  shade  trees  left  standing  where  they  should  be,  the 
brook  made  to  show  its  bright,  mischievous  face  at  bewitching 
intervals,  a  beautiful  grove  on  a  rise  of  ground  beyond,  which 
looked  as  though  it  was  intended  to  be  made  something  yet 
more  beautiful,  with  a  thousand  other  proofs  of  a  care  for 
something  less  important  than  clearing  the  land  and  raising 
good  crops,  made  us  waver  in  our  opinion.  There  was  a 
clump  of  green  that  we  could  not  make  out  in  advance  of  us ; 
and  as  we  drew  near,  we  called  on  the  driver  to  slacken  his 
pace  while  we  endeavored  to  satisfy  our  curiosity.  And  what 
think  you  it  was  ?  Why,  a  magnificent  avenue,  fenced  in  by 
stately  old  elm  trees,  and  leading  up  to  the  most  charming 
little  bird's  nest  that  ever  nursed  such  wee  witching  things  as 
we  saw  frolicking  among  the  vines  over-arching  the  door-way. 

Curiosity  stood  on  tip-toe,  and  J went  up  the  avenue  to 

repeat  the  inquiry  we  had  so  often  made  before.  We  saw 
him  tap  at  the  door,  and  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  white  dress 
through  a  crevice.  In  a  moment  he  turned  back,  accompa- 
nied by  a  charming  woman,  who  glided  over  the  hard  path- 
way with  singular  gracefulness.  We  knew  our  old  friend 
Nora  at  a  glance,  and  we  did  not  allow  her  to  reach  the  end 
of  the  avenue  before  we  had  her  in  our  arms.  She  was 
scarcely  changed.  There  was  the  same  warm,  soul-full  ex- 


32  NORA    MAYLIE. 

pression  in  the  varying  eye;  the  same  loving  smile  upon  the 
lip ;  with  a  deeper  happiness  portrayed  in  every  lineament  of 
her  eloquent  face ;  a  richer  hue  of  health  upon  her  cheek  ; 
and  a  feeling  in  every  glance  and  movement.  J whis- 
pered me  that  there  was  soul  in  the  very  touch  of  that  foot, 
as  it  kissed  the  earth ;  and  a  more  careless  observer  than 

J would  have  detected  the  soul  in  the  turn  of  the  white 

neck,  and  the  carriage  of  the  classic  head. 

And  the  bright  creatures  at  the  door  ?  The  young  mother 
presented  them  to  us  with  all  a  mother's  love  and  pride,  and 
we  were  not  inclined  to  undervalue  her  jewels. 

The  house  was  built  of  logs,  carefully  caulked,  and  was 
white-washed  inside  and  out.  Very  simple  and  unpretending 
was  it,  with  its  low  walls  buried  by  the  clinging  grape-vines 
which  had  been  brought  thither  from  the  wood.  And  there 
were  marks  in  the  pretty  garden-patch  of  Nora's  "  little  spade 
and  little  hoe,"  as  well  as  of  implements  wielded  by  a  heavier 
hand.  The  lady,  doubtless,  found  more  beautiful  flowers  in 
the  woods  of  Iowa,  than  those  which  had  received  her  irirli.-h 
homage  in  New  York.  It  was  a  very  pleasant  room  into 
which  we  were  ushered ;  but  simply  enough  furnished  for  the 
cell  of  a  hermit.  A  piece  of  furniture  answering  to  a  bureau 
stood  against  the  wall,  surmounted  by  a  small,  well-filled 
book-case ;  beneath  a  window,  shaded  by  a  snowy  muslin 
curtain,  was  a  couch,  evidently  an  article  of  home  manufac- 
ture, cushioned  with  a  pretty  calico ;  and  beyond  this,  directly 
beneath  a  plain,  cherry-framed  mirror,  stood  something  like  a 
dressing-table,  so  completely  covered  by  its  simple  cloth,  that 
eyes  less  curious  than  ours  might  not  have  discovered  the 
white  pine  feet  below,  and  so  judged  it  to  be  the  work  of  the 
couch's  artisan.  Mrs.  Waters  had  indulged  in  one  luxury  ; 
those  handsome  porcelain  vases  on  either  corner  of  her  dress- 
ing-table were  not  rtseful  things,  for  they  could  have  been 
purchased  for  no  earthly  purpose  but  to  hold  the  flowers 
which  were  now  making  the  air  of  the  apartment  rich  with 
their  perfume.  Possibly,  however,  they  were  a  present  from 
her  husband,  made  sometime  after  encountering  unusual  luck 


NORA    MAYL1E.  33 

in  trading  off  his  grain.  On  the  same  table  stood  a  willow 
work-basket,  with  the  hem  of  a  little  cambric  apron  lying  up 
against  its  rim ;  and  chairs  of  basket-work,  and  a  very  pretty 
carpet,  evidently  a  recent  purchase,  completed  the  furniture 
of  the  apartment.  Not  quite,  however.  There  was  another 
table,  now  occupying  the  centre,  with  a  snow-white  cloth 
spread  over  it,  and  upon  that  a  simple  repast,  lacking  but  the 
smoking  tea-urn ;  and  the  cakes  which,  from  the  peculiar  fla- 
vor emanating  from  the  room  beyond,  we  knew  to  be  in  a 
course  of  preparation.  My  eyes  (I  must  acknowledge  it, 
though  I  be  set  down  as  a  table-lover  from  this  day  forth) 
turned  from  the  golden-hued  butter,  and  the  delicious  straw- 
berries peeping  their  dainty  crimson  heads  from  the  sweet 
cream  in  which  they  nestled  so  provokingly,  to  the  promising 
kitchen,  and  back  again,  with  wondrous  eagerness;  when  lo! 
a  scream  of  delight  from  the  little  watchers  in  the  door-way, 
and  a  new  comer  was  introduced  among  us. 
That  wild  Will  Waters  ! 

Wild  enough  to  be  sure  he  seemed  then,  with  his  heartily- 
expressed  joy  at  seeing  us ;  but  how  came  he  by  that  unstud- 
ied polish,  that  courteous  manner,  that  je  ne  sais  quoi  which 
marks  the  gentleman  —  how  came  he  by  it  here  in  the  wil- 
derness, where  his  whole  business  must  needs  be  felling  trees 
and  ploughing  land  ?  So  did  not  Will  Waters  leave  us.  He 
was  bold  and  blunt  then,  and  notwithstanding  his  many  en 
gaging  qualities,  had  but  little  more  refinement  than  his 
neighbors ;  but  now,  though  his  manliness  had  not  suffered 
by  it,  you  would  have  believed  that  he  had  been  a  metropoli- 
tan for  a  life-time.  It  was  strange,  unaccountable  —  ah  no! 
not  unaccountable.  We  turned  to  the  sunny  face  of  the  wife ; 
we  marked  her  singularly  quiet  air,  the  choice  words  and 
delicate  sentiments  that  she  uttered ;  then  the  sweet,  carefully- 
dressed  and  carefully-taught  children,  and  the  neatly-furnished 
apartment ;  and  the  riddle  was  unfolded.  We  saw  for  whom 
that  pure  white  dress  had  been  donned  in  the  close  of  the  day, 
for  whom  the  little  muslin  collar  had  been  taken  from  the 
drawer  probably  half  an  hour  before,  and  for  whom  the  glossy 
braids  of  hair  were  so  carefully  adjusted  about  the  fine  head 


04  NORA    MAYLIE. 

Blessings  on  sweet  Nora  Maylie  !  True,  she  was  no  ge- 
nius ;  and  she  could  not  become  a  teacher,  nor  a  milliner, 
even ;  neither  was  she  of  the  material  to  be  moulded  into  a 
woman  of  fashion ;  but  she  was  a  most  charming  wife  and 
mother.  We  found  her  a  charming  hostess,  too,  and  linger- 
ingly  did  we  turn  from  her  sunlit  door. 

When  a  poet  again  inquires,  "  Where  is  happiness  ?"  I  will 
point  him  to  a  little  log  cottage,  nestled  among  wild  grape- 
vines, in  the  far-off  woods  of  Iowa. 


35 


GRANDFATHER    BRAY. 

DEAR  lady  —  thou  that  reclinest  so  gracefully  upon  yon 
sofa,  I  mean  —  lady,  for  a  moment  close  thine  eyes  upon  that 
handsome  volume,  though  its  dress  of  gilded  morocco  was 
certainly  invented  on  purpose  to  be  pressed  by  thy  dainty 
fingers,  and  the  printed  words  may  make  thy  heart  palpitate 
almost  as  much  as  did  the  whispered  ones  of  the  giver.  Nay, 
turn  them  not  upon  the  brilliant  chandeliers,  nor  the  volumin- 
ous folds  of  crimson  that  shut  in  the  rich,  warm  light,  fleck- 
ing the  heavy  drapery  with  changing  gold  and  purple ;  nor 
let  them  fall  upon  the  soft,  yielding  carpet,  almost  yielding 
enough  to  bury  up  thy  tiny,  slippered  foot.  No,  no  ;  shut 
out  for  a  moment  all  these  things ;  I  would  turn  thine  eyes  to 
a  lonelier  quarter.  Dost  see  that  comfortable  old  farm-house, 
lady  —  that  with  the  generous  court-yard,  broad  kitchen  gar- 
den and  ample  out  houses  ?  How  trig  and  nice  everything 
is  about  it,  although  the  season  of  verdure  is  quite  passed ! 
Look  at  the  ricks  of  hay,  raising  their  conical  heads  down  in 
the  meadow,  and  the  neat  stone  wall  that  surrounds  the  or- 
chard —  speak  they  not  of  thrift  ?  Ay,  that  they  do ;  but  they 
speak  of  a  thing  that  is  passed,  so  far  as  the  owners  of  the 
farm-house  are  concerned.  Yet  we  will  not  dwell  upon  that 
now.  That  lofty  well-sweep,  resting  its  tip  against  the  lower 
horn  of  the  moon,  is  certainly  one  of  the  most  aspiring  of  its 
kind ;  but  it  lias  labored  faithfully  in  the  cause  of  temperance 
for  many  a  long  year.  This  is  one  of  the  finest  wells  in  all 
the  country  round.  Wouldst  test  it  ?  Close  within  the  curb 
rests  the  gray  old  bucket,  and  it  is  a  right  merry  feat  to  fill  it 
o  the  brim  with  the  clear,  sparkling  fluid  —  that  mossy  brim, 
that  when  the  October  sun  shone  was  as  soft  as  thine  own 
lip,  lady. 


36  GRANDFATHER    BRAY. 

It  is  a  cold,  frosty  night,  so  let  us  take  a  peep  within  the 
farm-house.  The  stranger's  foot  was  ever  welcomed  here. 
The  crackling  wood  fire  blazes  brightly  in  the  huge  fire-place, 
and  sends  its  cheering  rays  to  the  farthest  extremity  of  the 
room,  quite  overpowering  the  light  of  the  mould  candle  that 
stands  upon  the  oaken  chest  of  drawers.  The  cross  beams 
overhead  are  set  off  with  festoons  of  dried  fruit,  interspersed 
with  bunches  of  herbs ;  and  a  swing  shelf,  suspended  by  bits 
of  leather  attached  to  the  ends,  is  loaded  down  with  useful 
books  and  waste  newspapers.  The  axe  has  been  brought 
from  the  wood -shed,  and  leans  against  the  wall  behind  the 
door ;  above  this  hangs  a  hand-saw  parallel  with  the  top  of  a 
broom-handle  ;  and,  higher  still,  an  old  musket,  with  its  rusty 
barrel  and  broken  lock,  rests  in  honored  peace  from  the  labors 
of  '76.  Articles  of  wearing  apparel,  varying  from  the  heavy 
lion-skin  overcoat  to  the  red  flannel  blanket,  to  suit  the  wants 
of  different  members  of  the  family,  range  along  the  walls,  ap- 
propriating the  goodly  number  of  nails  and  pegs  with  which 
every  prominent  piece  of  timber  is  garnished.  Cherry  tables 
and  wooden  chairs  occupy  a  due  space.  A  large  house-dog, 
under  one  of  the  former,  rests  his  nose  on  his  two  fore  paws, 
and  looks  about  him  very  knowingly,  and  three  or  four  com- 
placent cats  occupy  as  many  of  the  latter  as  they  can  conve- 
niently appropriate.  The  floor  is  bare,  but  it  is  scarcely  less 
white  than  the  carefully  scoured  churn,  from  which  a  girl  of 
sixteen  is  pouring  the  bubbling  milk,  that  but  a  few  moments 
since  mingled  with  the  flakes  of  golden-hued  butter,  now 
transferred  to  the  snowy  bowl.  That  old  lady  in  the  corner 
opposite,  with  the  grey  yarn  knitting,  and  muslin  cap,  is 
granny  Bray.  She  is  a  good  deal  bent  with  atre ;  time  has 
ploughed  deep  furrows  in  her  brow  and  taken  all  the  round- 
ness from  her  cheek;  but  what  a  sweet,  holy  expression  is 
left  instead !  Love  speaks  from  the  midst  of  wrinkles  and 
paleness  and  decay;  her  energies  have  gone,  her  vigor  is 
wasted,  but  love  is  in  her  heart — such  love  as  angels  feel. 
A  girl  of  eight  is  close  beside  her,  knitting  too.  She  has 
knotted  up  her  yarn  and  is  "  trying  a  race "  with  granny. 


GRANDFATHER     BRAY.  37 

By  the  table,  a  boy  and  girl  of  ten  and  twelve  are  busy  at  a 
game  of  checkers ;  and  the  father,  that  stout-built,  honest-faced 
man  with  a  newspaper,  now  and  then  glances  from  its  col- 
umns to  the  kernels  of  red  and  yellow  corn  "  jumping  "  about 
the  board.  The  remainder  of  the  group  are  grandfather  Bray, 
Mrs.  Hunter,  the  mother  of  the  young  folks,  and  her  little  son 
Neddy,  grandfather's  little  pet.  Grandfather,  though  the 
crown  of  his  head  is  quite  bare,  and  the  sides  decorated  with 
fleecy  locks,  is  as  erect  as  a  grenadier ;  and,  if  we  may  judge 
by  present  appearances,  more  to  be  feared  than  any  son  of 
Mars  that  ever  trod  the  field.  He  is  in  a  violent  passion,  a 
perfect  rage.  Mrs.  Hunter  has  probably  asked  some  great 
favor,  and  the  old  man  is  angered  at  her  assurance. 

"  No  !  no  !  no ! " 

"  But,  father  — " 

"  Silence  !  I  command  you,  Mary  Hunter !     Another  word, 
and  you  are  no  child  of  mine  !  I  have  said  and  will  abide  by 
it !  James   Bray  shall  never  step  over  this  threshold  till  he 
comes  to  look  upon  his  foolish  old  father's  corpse ;  you  may . 
let  him  see  that,  Mary." 

See  !  the  fine  figure  of  the  matron  cowers,  and  she  raises 
her  clasped  hands,  as  if  deprecating  her  father's  anger.  Now 
she  sinks  back  upon  her  chair,  rocks  to  and  fro,  and  tries  to 
stifle  her  sobs  in  the  folds  of  her  neat,  checked  apron.  Mr. 
Hunter  seems  to  have  lost  his  interest  in  the  newspaper  and 
the  game  too ;  a  cloud  comes  over  his  bluff,  good-humored 
face,  and  he  springs  to  his  feet  with  an  angry  exclamation. 
He  checks  himself,  however,  and  stalks  across  the  room  in 
dogged  silence.  The  faces  of  the  young  people  grow  anx- 
ious, even  to  paleness,  and  the  beautiful  child  standing  at  his 
grandfather's  knee  retreats  behind  him,  looking  out  from  the 
shelter  of  the  high-backed  arm  chair,  with  distended  eyes  and 
parted  lips.  Granny  Bray  alone  dares  speak.  With  her 
shaking,  withered  hand,  she  draws  a  pair  of  silver-mounted 
spectacles  from  eyes  meek,  soft  and  dove-like,  though  the 
haze  of  age  has  almost  obscured  their  brilliancy,  and  her 

VOL.  n.  4 


JO  GRANDFATHER     BRAY. 

gentle,  tremulous  tones  cannot  fail  to  remind  us  of  the  "  still, 
small  voice  "  hushing  the  tempest. 

"  Jacob,  the  sin  of  anger  leads  to  other  sins ;  you  are  unjust 
to  your  own  flesh  and  blood.  Poor  Mary  has  been  an  obedi- 
ent child  to  us  for  more  than  thirty  years,  and  it  is  ungrateful 
to  treat  her  so." 

"  Then  why  does  she  fret  me  ? "  And  the  old  man,  as  he 
speaks,  flings  a  relenting  glance  upon  the  matron.  "  I  am 
sure  I  think  as  much  of  Mary  as  you  do.  Eh,  Neddy?" 
He  is  sorry  that  there  is  any  cause  for  disagreement,  and  that 
is  why  he  stoops  to  caress  the  little  fellow,  who,  reassured  by 
the  natural  tone  of  his  voice,  is  already  tugging  at  his  coat- 
tail.  "  Don't  grandpapa  love  mother,  Ned  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  you  don't  love  uncle  James,  grandpapa,  you 
know  you  don't ;  and  that  is  just  as  wicked  as  ever  it  can  be." 

The  old  man  starts  as  though  a  wasp  had  stung  the  hand 
laid  upon  the  boy's  head.  How  his  voice  is  changed  !  "  Go 
to  your  mother,  sirrah  ! " 

But  the  brave  little  fellow  is  not  quite  ready  to  obey ;  he 
has  not  had  his  say  out.  His  clear  grey  eye  does  not  blench, 
as  it  is  fixed  on  the  face  of  the  angry  old  man,  and  his  voice 
rings  out  like  a  silver  bell.  There  is  a  touch  of  the  grand- 
father's own  spirit. 

"  Do  you  hate  me,  too,  grandpapa,  because  I  look  like  uncle 
James  ?  " 

"Neddy,  Neddy ! "  exclaims  the  mother  in  consternation, 
"  you  are  a  very  naughty  boy,  Neddy ;  come,  come  away  to 
bed!" 

The  old  man  answers  not,  but  his  heavy  tramp,  as  he  stalks 
about  the  room,  betokens  a  gathering  storm.  Only  one  can 
stay  its  fury,  and  that  is  the  faithful  being,  chosen  in  rosy 
youth  from  a  bright  throng ;  his  soother  in  adversity,  his  nurse 
in  sickness,  his  counsellor  in  perplexities,  his  companion  and 

ver-failing  friend  through  all  the  vicissitudes  of  a  long  life. 
She  now  drops  her  knitting  upon  the  table,  quite  forgetting 
that  she  is  not  in  the  seam-needle,  and  hobbling  forward,  places 
her  hand  upon  his  arm. 


GRANDFATHER     BRAY.  39 

"  Take  down  your  Bible,  Jacob ;  consult  that ;  your  own 
heart  is  deceitful." 

"  They  teach  even  their  children  to  taunt  me,  Ann;"  but 
the  old  man's  manner  is  comparatively  gentle. 

"  No,  no,  Jacob ;  there  you  are  wrong  again.  Children 
will  be  children,  and  Hunter  and  Mary  are  not  to  blame  if 
Neddy  is  now  and  then  saucy  to  you.  You  play  with  him 
so  much  that  you  ought  to  expect  it." 

"  I  ought  to  expect  it  from  the  face  he  carries  !  " 

"  Poor  James  was  the  most  dutiful  of  sons."  The  old  lady 
sighs,  as  though  the  involuntary  tribute  came  from  a  full  heart. 

"  Dutiful ! " 

"  Father,"  says  Mary,  "  you  have  often  told  us  that  brother 
James  was  the  kindest  and  best  child  you  ever  had.  Don't 
you  recollect  how  he  nursed  you  through  that  long  fever, 
and — " 

"  And  how  he  wheedled  me  out  of  all  my  hard  earnings  and 
made  me  a  beggar  in  my  old  age,  owing  the  roof  that  shelters 
me  to  the  charity  of  strangers,  and  dependent  for  my  bread 
on  one  who  has  not  a  drop  of  my  blood  in  his  veins  !  What 
do  you  say  to  that,  Mary  ?  Thank  God,  I  have  yet  a  roof 
above  me !  He  would  have  turned  me  into  the  streets,  but 
strangers  —  thank  God  that  I  have  a  roof !  and,  that,  I  swear 
by-" 

"  Jacob,  Jacob  ! "  interposes  the  mild  voice  of  granny  Bray, 
"  say  nothing  you  will  be  sorry  for ;  you  are  in  a  passion. 
Jacob,  and  no  good  comes  of  anger." 

"  Father," —  this  is  the  deep  bass  of  Hunter,  who  has  till 
now  remained  silent.  "  Father,  just  now  you  spoke  of  being 
dependent ;  you  know  Mary  and  I  are  glad  to  be  with  you 
and  right  proud  to  make  you  comfortable." 

"  Dear  heart ! "  What  a  grateful  glance  accompanies  the 
old  lady's  exclamation.  "  Jacob,  we  have  the  best  children 
in  the  world  ! " 

"  All  but  one,  all  but  one."  This  is  not  all  the  old  man 
mutters  between  his  teeth ;  but  perhaps  it  is  as  well  that  we 
do  not  hear  the  rest. 


4U  GRANDFATHER    BRAY. 

"  And  he  is  good,  too.  Nay,  Jacob,  listen ;  James  is  out 
first-born ;  he  was  our  pride  in  the  days  of  our  strength,  before 
we  knew  how  foolish  and  sinful  it  was  to  lay  up  our  trca.-nr'- 
upon  earth.  He  has  taken  care  of  us,  and  comforted  and 
watched  over  us ;  to  be  sure  we  leaned  upon  a  broken  reed, 
but  that  was  our  own  fault ;  a  better  child  never  lived.  He 
has  met  with  misfortunes,  and  you  cannot  forgive  him  for  it ; 
how  can  you  expect  to  be  forgiven  ?  " 

"  I  do  forgive  him ;  I  told  minister  Dean  so ;  but  I  never 
will  see  him — never,  while  I  have  strength  to  shut  the  door 
against  him ! " 

"  It  does  strike  me,  sir,  that  this  spirit  is  not  befitting  a 
man  of  your  years  and  profession,"  interposed  the  bass  voice 
bluntly. 

"  It  is  not  for  you  to  call  me  to  account,  John  Hunter,  unless, 
indeed — " 

"  Do  not  say  it ;  do  not  say  it,  father,"  whispered  Mary, 
crouching  on  the  floor  beside  him,  and  folding  her  arms  over 
his  knees;  "  Hunter  is  a  lion  when  he  is  aroused,  and  you  and 
he  must  be  kind  to  each  other." 

'•  For  your  sake,  Moll ;  you  are  a  good  girl,  and  I  must 
humor  you,  if  only  because  you  are  the  baby." 

Peace  seems  to  be  restored,  and  we  will  retire,  lady,  while 
I  explain  in  a  few  words  the  scene. 

Grandfather  Bray  was  now  verging  on  his  eightieth  winter, 
and  his  son  James  (himself  a  grandfather)  was  scarce  twenty- 
five  years  his  junior.  When  James  first  married,  he  lived  at 
the  homestead  and  cultivated  the  farm,  and  as  one  after 
another  of  the  children  made  for  themselves  homes  in  the 
neighboring  towns,  his  situation  only  seemed  the  more  per- 
manent. At  last,  Mary,  the  youngest  child,  left  the  parental 
roof,  and  James  and  his  kind  family  were  more  necessary  to 
the  old  people  than  ever.  The  farm  yielded  a  comfortable 
support  for  all,  and  there  was  no  reason  why  it  should  not 
continue  to  do  so ;  but  the  demon  of  speculation  entered  the 
honest,  sensible  heau  of  James  Bray.  The  title-deed  of  the 
farm  had  been  his  for  several  years ;  he  rashly  risked  it,  and 


GRANDFATHEK    I5KAY.  41 

lost.  Through  the  generosity  of  creditors,  his  father  received 
a  life-lease  of  the  house  and  garden ;  but  what  was  this  to  the 
sturdy  old  farmer,  who  had  all  his  life  long  gloried  in  fertile 
fields  and  overflowing  granaries  ?  His  very  mind  was  nar- 
rowed down — his  faculties  cramped  by  thinking  upon  his 
diminished  fortunes,  and  they  burst  forth  in  anger.  While 
the  old  lady  raised  her  eyes  meekly  and  wondered  what  her 
poor  grandchildren  would  do,  he  only  raised  his  voice  to  ani- 
madvert on  what  had  been  done.  He  declared  that  he  was 
cajoled,  cheated,  swindled,  and  he  would  not  bear  it.  The 
more  unreasonable  his  anger  became,  the  more  fire  it  gathered, 
for  indignation  always  increases  in  inverse  ratio  to  its  right- 
eousness. It  was  soon  found  necessary  for  James  to  seek 
another  dwelling,  and  this  was  a  much  sorer  trial  to  poor 
granny  Bray,  than  the  loss  of  property.  James  had  more  of 
his  mother's  spirit  than  his  father's,  and  it  was  a  sorrowful 
thing  for  him  to  part  in  anger  from  his  beloved  sire.  When 
Mary  Hunter  took  her  place  by  the  sacred  old  hearth-stone, 
he  whispered  in  her  ear,  "  Never  cease  persuading  till 
you  have  made  peace ;  my  conscience  tells  me  that  I  have 
been  foolish  and  imprudent,  wickedly  greedy  and  covetous  of 
this  world's  goods ;  and  my  father's  anger  will  weigh  heavily 
upon  me  until  it  is  withdrawn."  And  so  Mary's  pleading 
voice  was  often  heard ;  but  it  only  increased  the  old  man's 
irritability.  This  was  the  night  before  Thanksgiving,  and,  as 
usual,  the  children  and  grandchildren  were  to  join  in  the 
Thanksgiving  merry-making  at  the  dear  old  homestead.  And 
Mary  pleaded  and  pleaded,  and  cried  as  though  her  heart 
would  break,  when  she  found  her  pleadings  in  vain.  Thanks- 
giving came  and  went,  but  heavily  passed  the  day  at  the  farm- 
house. Granny  Bray  said  the  like  had  never  been  known 
since  the  funeral  of  poor  little  Jemmy — the  bravest  and  fairest, 
she  had  ever  since  declared,  of  all  her  grandchildren.  The 
Hunters  had  done  their  best  to  make  the  festival  joyous,  but 
no  joy  was  there.  Even  the  young  children  missed  the  famil- 
iar faces  of  their  young  cousins,  and  looked  thoughtful  in  the 
midst  of  their  amusement. 

VOL.  II.  4* 


42  GRANDFATHER    BRAY. 

The  feast  was  spread,  and  it  had  never  been  more  sumptu- 
ous ;  but  nothing  seemed  as  in  former  times ;  the  soul  of  the 
feast  was  wanting.  The  love,  the  unity  of  feeling,  that  had 
consecrated  it  since  the  now  outcast  son  sat  on  his  father's 
knee,  a  baby,  had  been  rudely  jarred,  and  the  house  of  feast- 
ing was  turned  to  one  of  mourning. 

Weeks  passed  by,  and  grandfather  Bray  was  as  positive 
and  unyielding  as  ever.  It  was  in  vain  that  the  sweet,  trem- 
ulous tones  of  his  wife  preached  the  duty  of  forgiveness. 

"  I  have  forgiven  him,"  was  the  uniform  reply,  "  but  I  never 
will  forget." 

Still  the  old  man's  stubborness  made  him  miserable,  and 
granny  Bray,  in  kindness  (whether  judiciously  or  not  is 
another  matter)  ceased  not  to  tell  him  of  it  every  day. 

As  New- Year's  day  approached,  a  feeling  exceedingly  un- 
comfortable seemed  to  pervade  the  atmosphere  of  the  old 
farm-house.  It  was  a  festival  that  had  been  almost  as  reli- 
giously observed  as  Thanksgiving  ;  and,  should  it  now  be  neg- 
lected ?  Grandfather  Bray  wished  that  it  might,  and  looked 
about  him  for  a  reason,  but  none  presented  itself.  As  the 
merry  anniversary  drew  near,  even  the  very  clouds  and  sun- 
shine seemed  to  have  an  inkling  of  the  old  man's  state  of 
mind,  and  to  conspire  against  him.  There  was  a  heavy  fall 
of  snow  on  the  night  of  the  twenty-eighth ;  on  the  twenty- 
ninth  the  roads  were  somewhat  blocked  up,  and  grandfather 
was  inclined  to  think  them  quite  impassable ;  indeed,  he  more 
than  hinted  that  none  but  madmen  would  venture  out  for  at 
least  a  week  to  come.  On  the  thirtieth,  however,  sleighs 
flitted  here  and  there  like  fairy  boats  on  a  sea  of  foam ;  and 
such  a  day  as  the  thirty-first  was  an  era  in  the  life  of  pleasure- 
lovers.  The  sleighing  was  a  perfect  marvel.  Oh,  how  the 
horses  pranced !  And  such  a  jingling  of  bells  !  It  was  enough 
to  turn  the  whole  world  of  young  folks  into  Robin  Goodfellows, 
;ind  make  the  most  withered  heart  dance  within  the  bosom. 
And  hearts  did  dance,  and  were  mirrored  in  dancing  eyes, 
and  sat  upon  warm,  loving  lips,  and  rang  out  in  glad  young 
voices ;  ay,  winter  though  it  was,  the  earth  was  radiant  with 


GRANDFATHER    BUAV.  43 

beauty,  and  the  air  vocal  with  a  music  far  more  joyous  than 
the  gush  of  melody  from  a  summer  woodland.  The  last  sun 
of  the  old  year  set  in  a  flood  of  golden  light,  and  grandfather 
Bray's  heart  sank  within  him.  That  bevy  of  try-to-be  happy 
faces  haunted  him ;  he  was  sure  he  could  not  endure  another 
day  like  the  gloomy  Thanksgiving ;  yet  not  even  a  cold  had 
he  been  able  to  muster,  to  confine  him  to  his  room.  The  old 
man's  face  grew  longer  as  the  evening  deepened ;  but  as  no 
one  appeared  to  observe  him,  he  had  no  excuse  for  being  surly, 
arid  was  only  sad. 

What  a  bright  morning  was  that  of  the  New  Year !  the  air 
was  pure  and  bracing,  and  a  gay  dazzling  sunlight  played 
many  pranks  with  inclined  snow  flakes  and  pendent  icicles, 
and  decked  old,  withered  trees  in  a  gayer  garniture  than  that 
of  spring.  Granny  Bray,  with  her  usual  placid  smile,  deco- 
rated herself  with  her  newest  muslin  cap,  and  folded  her 
whitest  'kerchief  across  her  bosom,  and  then  sat  down  to  her 
knitting  in  the  corner.  Mr.  Hunter  went  about  his  usual 
morning  avocations,  but  with  unusual  alacrity ;  his  wife  took 
another  look  at  the  pies  of  pumpkin  and  mince-meat,  the 
dough-nuts  and  cookies  and  gingerbread,  and  then  turned  to 
a  whole  table  full  of  featherless  bipeds,  waiting  to  be  roasted ; 
while  the  children  busied  themselves  in  making  ready,  in 
their  own  way,  for  a  whole  troop  of  expected  cousins.  Grand- 
father Bray  stumped  about  the  house  and  barn,  and  up  and 
down  the  nice  path  cut  through  the  snow  to  the  road,  then 
drew  on  his  Sunday  coat,  and  made  a  desperate  attempt  at 
cheerfulness.  But  all  would  not  do ;  his  heart  was  troubled. 
Just  as  the  clock  was  on  the  stroke  of  nine,  a  pretty  pony 
dashed  up  to  the  door  with  a  light  vehicle  of  a  somewhat 
unique  pattern,  the  self-same  little  jumper  that  grandfather 
had  assisted  the  two  boys  of  his  banished  son  in  contriving 
and  making.  The  reins  were  held  by  his  own  favorite  grand- 
son ;  and,  by  Charley's  side,  all  hooded  and  cloaked,  sat  his 
young  sister  Lucy,  ready  to  spring  from  the  sleigh  the  moment 
it  stopped. 

"  Cousin  Lucy !  cousin  Lucy ! "  shouted  the  noisy  children ; 


44  GRANDFATHER    BRAY. 

and  before  she  reached  the  gate  they  were  all  around  her,  and 
little  Eddy  had  half  precipitated  her  into  the  snow-drift  in  the 
attempt  to  jump  astride  her  neck. 

"  How  glad  we  are  to  see  you,  cousin  Lucy ! "  and  "  Did 
grandfather  invite  you  to  New  Year's,  cozzy?"  and  "Is  uncle 
James  coming?"  were  among  the  questions  and  exclamations 
poured  upon  the  little  maiden,  as  she  proceeded  to  the  house. 

Even  Charley,  who  kept  his  station  in  the  sleigh,  was  for 
the  moment  forgotten,  but  it  was  only  a  moment.  Eddy  turned 
back  to  him,  and,  with  a  delighted  scream,  accomplished  the 
feat  he  attempted  with  Lucy ;  and  the  children,  attracted  by 
the  noise,  gathered  round  the  funny  little  jumper,  leaving 
Lucy  with  her  eldest  cousin  on  the  threshold. 

"  Does  grandfather  love  me  yet  ?  "  she  whispered  in  Julia's 
ear. 

"  I  don't  know,"  and  Julia  shook  her  head,  as  though  she 
would  have  added,  "  you  would  n't  think  he  did." 

"  Then  he  never  speaks  of  me  ?  "  inquired  the  child,  in  a 
still  softer  tone. 

"Poor  grandfather!"  sighed  Julia  Hunter;  and  "Poor 
grandfather!"  echoed  Lucy  Bray;  "poor  dear  grandfather! 
It  must  make  him  unhappy,  not  to  love  everybody;  he  was 
always  so  good." 

By  this  time  the  door  turned  on  its  hinges  and  Lucy  step- 
ped into  the  capacious  kitchen,  where  you  and  I  went,  lady, 
the  night  before  Thanksgiving.  Grandfather  was  trying  to 
busy  himself  over  a  newspaper,  but  Lucy's  quick  eye  at  once 
detected  the  failure,  for  it  was  upside  down.  "  A  happy  New 
Year,  grandfather  ! "  she  said,  in  a  cheerful  tone  ;  and  the  old 
man,  though  he  raised  his  hand,  and  drew  back  his  head, 
could  not  prevent  the  dewy,  red  lips  from  meeting  his. 

"  You  are  cold,  Lucy,"  he  attempted  to  say  in  an  indiffer- 
ent tone ;  but  his  voice  sounded  husky  and  unnatural,  and  he 
was  ashamed  to  trust  it. 

The  meeting  between  granny  Bray  and  her  little  grand- 
daughter was  a  loving  one ;  but  the  child  soon  turned  away 


GKANDFATHER    BRAY.  45 

from  the  dear  old  lady,  to  one  who,  notwithstanding  his  faults, 
was  none  the  less  dear. 

"  I  did  n't  come  to  stay,  grandfather,  for  I  know  that  it  would 
spoil  your  New  Year's  to  have  anybody  here  that  you  don't 
love ;  but  I  did  want  to  bring  you  some  of  my  socks  and  mit- 
tens, you  liked  them  so  much  last  winter.  Don't  you  remem- 
ber, grandfather,  that  first  pair  of  mittens  ?  how  they  twisted, 
and  the  stripes  went  all  askew  ?  and  then  how  you  laughed 
at  me,  and  put  both  my  hands  into  one  and  tied  them  fast  ? 
But  the  next  pair  was  done  to  a  charm — don't  you  recollect? 
Now,  look  here,  grandfather ! "  and  Lucy  began  to  display  the 
contents  of  her  basket. 

Grandfather,  however,  did  not  look.  There  was  a  slight 
redness  about  his  eyes,  and  a  nervous  twitching  at  the  corners 
of  his  mouth ;  but  what  principally  prevented  him  from  look- 
ing was  the  extreme  difficulty  he  had  in  finding  his  way  into 
his  pocket,  though  his  only  object  seemed  to  be  to  force  an 
entrance,  for  when  he  once  accomplished  the  feat  he  withdrew 
his  fingers  and  tried  again.  In  the  mean  time,  Lucy  had  pro- 
duced from  her  basket  a  neat  muslin  cap,  and  granny  Brav's 
snowy  head  was  bared  to  try  the  effect  of  her  pretty  present. 
For  thirty  years  her  caps  had  been  made  by  the  same  hand, 
and  she  was  sure  that  no  one  could  suit  her  but  the  elder 
Lucy. 

"  Tell  your  mother,"  said  the  old  lady,  "  that  it  was  very 
kind  in  her  to  think  of  us ;  and  especially  to-day,  when  we 
have  done  the  same  as  to  shut  the  door  upon  her.  Your 
mother  is  a  good  woman,  Lucy,  and  you  are  a  good  child." 

"  Her  mother's  child,"  said  the  old  man,  struggling  with  a 
whole  throatful  of  emotion. 

Lucy  turned  her  full  eyes  upon  him ;  then  they  brimmed 
over,  and,  twining  her  arms  around  the  old  man's  neck,  she 
buried  her  face  in  his  bosom  and  sobbed,  "  My  father's  child, 
and  yours,  dear  grandfather ;  you  cannot  cast  me  off! " 

The  shaking  arms  closed  around  her,  as  if  declaring  they 
did  not  wish  to  cast  her  off,  and  the  old  man  threw  a  troubled 
glance  upon  the  floor.  It  was  not  the  place  to  gain  firmness ; 


40  GRANDFATHER   BRAY. 

for  there  stood  the  basket,  with  the  hose  and  mittens  that 
nobody  but  Lucy  and  her  mother  could  knit  just  right ;  and 
upon  the  top  lay  a  pair  of  cloth  slippers,  so  comfortable  that 
his  feet  felt  a  strong  inclination  to  creep  into  them  at  once. 
How  he  had  wanted  just  such  a  pair  of  slippers !  and  how 
granny,  and  Mary,  and  Mary's  daughter,  Julia,  had  fretted 
over  them,  and  at  last  succeeded  in  producing  a  pair  that 
would  fit  the  hoofed  foot  of — of  anything  that  has  such  feet, 
much  better  than  the  pedal  extremities  of  any  human  being. 
But  there  was  one  thing  about  them  that  troubled  the  old 
gentleman  more  than  all  the  rest. 

The  soling  was  the  handiwork  of  James.  There  could  be 
no  mistake  about  it ;  James  was  ingenious  and  economical, 
and  he  had  always  done  such  things.  Grandfather  Bray 
drew  the  back  of  his  horny  hand  two  or  three  times  across 
his  eyes ;  and  his  aged  partner  knitted  away  very  earnestly, 
having — not  the  tact,  oh,  no,  the  old  lady  was  far  from  being 
celebrated  for  skill  in  that  line — but  the  genuine  kindness  of 
heart,  to  forbear  speaking.  Prying  eyes  overthrow  a  vast 
amount  of  good  in  this  world.  Honest  hearts  do  not  like  to 
be  looked  into,  and  spied  out,  and  commented  upon,  much 
better  than  dishonest  ones.  Emotion  of  all  kinds  is  a  sacred 
thing,  and  the  man  who  loves  to  display  it  has  only  the  coun- 
terfeit. Grandfather  Bray  never  counterfeited ;  it  was  unne- 
cessary, for  he  was  in  possession  of  the  true  coin.  All  he 
did  was  done  bluntly  and  honestly.  For  a  moment  he  held 
his  breath  and  winked  back  the  moisture  from  his  eyes ;  but 
the  mute  evidences  of  love  and  carefulness  looked  up  plead- 
ingly from  the  child's  little  basket,  and  told  of  by-gone  days ; 
and  the  precious  burden  within  his  arms,  quivering  all  over 
with  emotion,  was  too  close  to  his  heart  not  to  exert  a  soften- 
ing influence  upon  it. 

"God  bless  you,  Lucy!"  at  last  the  old  man  broke  forth. 
"  Hush  your  sobbing,  child ;  hush  !  There,  there,  my  little 
puss,  be  quiet  now,  and  you  shall  have  everything  your  own 
way.  Children  are  so  wilful  now-a-days !  Do  you  hear, 
pussy  ?  everything  your  own  way." 


GRANDFATHER  BRAY.  47 

"  Grandfather !  my  —  do  you  mean " 

"Mean!  to  be  sure  I  do;  mean  a  great  many  things! 
Hop  down  from  my  knee.  Crying  children  should  never 
kiss;  you've  sprinkled  my  face  all  over  with  your  tears;" 
and  grandfather,  thinking  he  had,  by  this  last  remark,  proved 
the  impossibility  of  any  of  the  tears  belonging  exclusively  to 
himself,  rolled  the  bewildered  child  from  his  arm  and  hurried 
to  the  door. 

"  Hunter !  John  Hunter  !  How  d'ye  do,  Charley  ?  come 
here,  my  boy !  we  are  to  have  grand  times  to-day,  and  you 
and  I  must  do  the  little  odd  jobs,  you  know.  Hunter,  harness 
the  horses  to  the  big  sleigh,  and — hem!  —  and  go  over  to  the 
corners  and  bring  —  ahem  !  —  bring  James  Bray,  and  all  the 
family  —  all  of  them,  remember,  Hunter ;  down  to  the  cat,  if 
Billy  has  a  notion." 

Off  started  the  overjoyed  son-in-law  with  a  skip-hop-and- 
jump-step,  that  made  the  children  send  up  a  merry  peal  of 
laughter  exactly  suited  to  the  gayety  of  the  morning ;  and 
grandfather  Bray  joined  in  the  merriment,  though  very  far 
from  certain  that  it  was  not  at  his  expense.  Lucy  had  heard 
the  command ;  and  she  now  had  both  hands  clasped  about 
her  grandfather's  arm,  with  her  sweet,  sunny  face  upturned 
and  looking  into  his ;  while  Charley  expressed  his  joy  by 
leaping  over  the  fence  and  back  again  three  times  succes- 
sively. 

Lady,  if  you  could  have  looked  in  at  grandfather  Bray's 
that  day !  if  you  could  have  heard  the  stale  joke  applauded,  as 
though  that  moment  coined  !  and  seen  the  mirthful  faces  (to 
say  nothing  of  the  steaming  meats  and  smoking  gravies)  and 
heard  the  long,  loud  peal  that  shook  the  rafters,  mingling 
with  the  silvery  tones  of  childhood !  If  you  could  have  seen 
and  heard  all  this,  I  do  not  say  that  you  would  have  envied 
that  joyous  party,  but  you  would  have  wondered  all  the  rest 
of  the  world  did  not  envy  them.  And  Lucy  clapped  her 
small,  dimpled  hands,  and  skipped  and  frisked  about  like  a 
little  kitten  ;  and  Neddy  declared  that  grandfather  only  hug- 
ged him  the  closer  when  they  all  said  he  looked  like  uncle 


49  GRANDFATHER   BRAY. 

James.  Not  a  word  was  said  of  forgiveness,  on  either  side, 
for  when  the  heart  has  done  its  work  words  are  weak  things ; 
but  nevertheless  words  did  pass ;  words  of  care  and  considera- 
tion, and  they  were  appreciated. 

You  will  wonder,  lady,  that  I  have  taken  you  to  such  a  com- 
mon place,  and  told  you  such  a  very  common  story ;  and  I  can 
hardly  answer  why.  It  must  be  that  you  have  kept  all  home 
feelings  pure  and  sacred;  the  chain  of  love  that  passes  around 
your  hearth-stone  can  never  have  been  tarnished  by  the  breath 
of  an  unjust  or  unforgiving  spirit.  La.dy,  pardon  me ;  my 
story  was  intended  for  unreasonable  old  men  like  grandfather 
Bray,  and  resentful  people  wwlike  his  son  James ;  and  I  am 
sorry  to  have  detained  you  so  long.  Of  course,  the  fire  on 
your  domestic  altar  never  burns  dim ;  and  you  are  too  gentle 
and  loving  to  stand  up  in  unbending  coldness,  because  you 
happen  to  be  in  the  right.  Would  that  all  were  like  you, 
lady! 


49 


SONNET    TO    WINTER. 

THY  brow  is  girt,  thy  robe  with  gems  inwove ; 
And  palaces  of  frost-work,  on  the  eye, 
Flash  out,  and  gleam  in  every  gorgeous  dye, 

The  pencil,  dipped  in  glorious  things  above, 
Can  bring  to  earth.     Oh,  thou  art  passing  fair  ! 

But  cold  and  cheerless  as  the  heart  of  death, 

Without  one  warm,  free  pulse,  one  softening  breath, 
One  soothing  whisper  for  the  ear  of  Care. 

Fortune  too  has  her  Winter.     In  the  Spring, 
We  watch  the  bud  of  promise  ;  and  the  flower 
Looks  out  upon  us  at  the  Summer  hour ; 

And  Autumn  days  the  blessed  harvest  bring ; 
Then  comes  the  reign  of  jewels  rare,  and  gold, 
When  brows  flash  light,  but  hearts  grow  strangely  cold. 


LIGHTS  AND   SHADES-A   SONNET. 

IF  there  be  light  upon  my  being's  cloud, 

I  '11  cast  o'er  other  hearts  its  cheering  ray ; 

'T  will  add  new  brightness  to  my  toilsome  way. 
But  when  my  spirit's  sadness  doth  enshroud 

Hope's  coruscations,  pleasure's  meteor  gleam, 
And  darkness  settles  down  upon  my  heart, 
And  care  exerts  her  blighting,  cankering  art, 

Then,  then,  what  I  am  not  I  '11  strive  to  seem  ; 
Woe  has  no  right  her  burden  to  divide, 
To  cast  her  shadows  o'er  a  sunny  soul  ; 


So,  though  my  bark  rock  on  the  troubled  tide, 
Or  lie,  half  wrecked,  upon  the  hidden  shoal, 
The  flowers  of  hope  shall  garland  it  the  while, 
Though  plucked  from  out  her  urn  in  death  to  smile. 


SONNET. 

THE    BUDS    OF    THE    SARANAC.* 

AN  angel  breathed  upon  a  budding  flower, 

And  on  that  breath  the  bud  went  up  to  heaven, 
Yet  left  a  fragrance  in  the  little  bower 

To  which  its  first  warm  blushes  had  been  given ; 
And,  by  that  fragrance  nursed,  another  grew, 

And  so  they  both  had  being  in  the  last, 
And  on  this  one  distilled  heaven's  choicest  dew, 

And  rays  of  glorious  light  were  on  it  cast, 
Until  the  floweret  claimed  a  higher  birth, 

And  would  not  open  on  a  scene  so  drear, 
For  it  was  more  of  Paradise  than  earth, 

And  strains  from  thence  came  ever  floating  near ; 
And  so  it  passed,  and  long  ere  noontide's  hour, 
The  buds  of  earth  had  oped,  a  heaven-born  flower. 

*Lucretia  and  Margaret  Davidson. 


51 


BORN    TO   WEAR   A   CORONET. 

SOME  people  are  born  to  wear  a  coronet,  no  doubt ;  but 
why  such,  thing's  happen  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic,  where 
plain,  simple,  republican  blood  alone  is  allowed  to  pass  cur- 
rent, I  cannot  imagine.  Yet  that  such  things  do  actually  occur 
here,  I  am  certain,  and  so  would  you  be,  dear  reader  of  mine, 
if  you  had  ever  seen  Rosina  Brown.  Well  do  I  remember 
her — a  tall,  dark-haired  maiden,  in  the  first  half  of  her  teens, 
with  a  form  remarkably  well  developed,  an  easy  air,  and  a 
very  peculiar  manner  of  carrying  a  head  which  was  in  reality 
a  very  fine  head,  when  it  was  not  thrown  back  so  far  as  to 
destroy  the  equilibrium  of  the  figure.  In  school-girl  phrase, 
she  was  a  magnificent  creature,  with  hair  like  the  raven's 
wing,  and  eyes  to  match,  features  of  nature's  most  exquisite 
workmanship,  a  queen-like  figure,  and  a  step  like  Juno's. 
People  less  enthusiastic  would  have  said  that  she  was  a  very 
fine  girl,  who,  if  she  did  not  spoil  herself  by  disagreeable  airs, 
might  become  a  useful  and  accomplished  woman.  We  were 
not  so  tame  and  common-place,  however ;  and,  from  the  digni- 
fied Miss  Martin,  who  had  come  to  Alderbrook  "  merely  to 
review  her  studies,"  down  to  us  lisping  Peter  Parleyites,  we 
all  regarded  such  equivocal  encomiums  with  the  contempt 
they  merited.  Oh  !  how  we  did  lament  the  vulgarity  of 
American  society,  and  deprecate  the  debasing  sentiment  which 
is  the  corner-stone  of  our  government.  But  for  those  "  rusty- 
fusty  old  men,"  who  put  their  heads  together,  as  old  men  are 
forever  doing,  to  destroy  all  the  dear,  delightful  romance  of 
life,  by  making  believe  that  all  the  people  in  the  world  are 
born  free  and  equal,  our  splendid  beauty  might  have  been  at 
loast  a  countess. 
"  The  head  of  Zenobia ! "  Miss  Martin  would  sigh,  and, 


52  BORN    TO    WEAR    A    CORONET. 

"  Such  a  head  ! "  came  the  echo  from  lip  after  lip,  with  a  half- 
lisped  finis  from  the  baby-pet,  Fanny  Forester. 

Alas  !  that  Nature,  who  it  is  generally  believed  may  be  im- 
plicitly trusted  in  matters  touching  pedigree,  should,  on  this 
occasion,  so  far  forget  herself  as  to  send  a  model  for  a  princess 
of  the  blood  royal  across  the  water,  where  women  are  expected 
to  wash  their  own  dishes  and  scrub  their  own  floors  ! 

It  must  have  been  some  awkward  mistake,  and  I  have  since 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  Miss  Rosina  Brown  was  intended 
for  the  Queen  of  England,  and  the  more  simple  Victoria  for 
Miss  Rosina  Brown.  Be  that  as  it  may,  many  were  the 
fresh-hearted,  simple-souled  little  damsels  who  threw  up  their 
pretty  hands  in  ecstasy  at  every  sentiment  she  uttered,  and 
heard  her  animadvert  on  fashion,  refinement,  and,  above  all, 
aristocracy,  with  staring  eyes  and  gaping  mouths.  Among 
these  did  Miss  Rosina  move  a  queen,  though  deprived  of  any 
other  court.  We  understood  the  contraction  of  her  brow,  the 
drawing  up  of  her  neck,  and  the  curl  of  her  lip  perfectly  well ; 
and  unfortunate  indeed  was  the  stranger  who,  by  some  pecu- 
liarity of  voice  or  manner,  or  the  display  of  some  article  of 
dress  not  precisely  in  accordance  with  our  sovereign's  taste, 
called  down  upon  herself  these  unequivocal  marks  of  disap- 
probation. But  Miss  Brown,  (if  her  title  must  needs  be  simple 
Miss,  pray  why  could  n't  it  have  been  Neville  or  Montfort,  or 
something  that  had  at  least  a  shadow  of  nobility  about  it  ?) 
Miss  Brown,  with  all  her  holdings  forth  on  aristocracy,  could 
not  have  defined  the  word  any  better  than  two  thirds  of  the 
brilliant  misses  and  ambitious  mammas  that  have  so  well  nigh 
exhausted  the  theme  by  their  continual  harpings,  both  before 
her  day  and  since  her  settlement.  She  knew  that  aristocrats 
were  a  touch  above  the  vulgar,  that  they  lost  caste  by  making 
themselves  useful,  that  they  should  not  come  in  contact  with 
— with — well,  even  I,  her  pet  pupil,  have  forgotten  whom  ; 
but  it  is  a  class  whose  traits  it  is  given  them  to  understand 
intuitively.  That  aristocracy  is  a  shadowy  word  to  me  yet ; 
for  it  is  enveloped  in  the  misty  veil  of  Miss  Brown's  explana- 
tions. I  think  it  conveyed  the  idea  of  some  exclusive  privi- 


BORN    TO    WEAR    A    CORONET.  53 

leges,  I  do  not  recollect  what,  and  a  particular  way  of  bowing 
and  curtsying,  I  have  forgotten  how ;  whether  it  had  anything 
to  do  with  the  curl  of  the  hair,  or  bend  in  the  bridge  of  the 
nose,  I  cannot  say ;  but  it  certainly  had  with  the  curvature  of 
the  lips,  for  I  recollect  one  sweet  little  girl  was  voted  plebeian 
by  Miss  Brown's  court,  because,  after  numerous  lessons,  she 
could  not  throw  up  the  comers  of  her  pretty  mouth,  as  my 
Zikka  does  when  angered  by  the  bit.  Neither  do  I  know 
whether  high  birth  had  part  or  parcel  in  the  matter  of  making 
an  aristocrat,  but  I  half  suspect  in  theory  it  had ;  for  I  remem- 
ber one  young  lady  who  was  considered  an  unfit  associate, 
because  her  father  was  a  "  vile  mechanic ;"  and  Miss  Brown 
carefully  concealed  from  us  the  fact,  that  her  dear  papa  was 
the  same  Adam  Brown,  the  flower  of  his  profession,  who  had 
graced  so  well  the  character  of  "  mine  host,"  proud,  rather 
than  ashamed,  of  the  gilt  letters  emblazoned  on  the  swinging 
sign  before  his  door.  Adam  Brown  was  a  worthy,  pains- 
taking man,  kind  and  affable,  and  very  much  of  a  gentleman 
withal,  having  not  the  slightest  suspicion  that  his  business 
was  incompatible  with  the  maintenance  of  that  character. 
Neither  was  his  fair  daughter  troubled  with  any  qualms  about 
the  matter ;  but  she  flitted  like  the  gladsome  thing  that  she 
was  among  the  numerous  visitors,  laid  the  snowy  cloth,  served 
the  tea,  and  performed  the  thousand  other  offices  that  none 
can  grace  so  well  as  a  sweet  little  girl,  flashing  with  spirit 
and  dimpling  with  good  humor.  Indeed,  though  afraid  of 
scandalizing  myself  by  the  expression  of  such  a  sentiment,  I 
do  more  than  half  suspect  that  much  of  Miss  Brown's  Zeno- 
bian  grace  was  picked  up  in  this  very  manner.  If  she  did 
not  owe  the  shape  of  her  head  to  the  duties  of  the  hostel,  she 
certainly  did  the  carriage  of  it ;  and  not  a  coroneted  brow  in 
Christendom  could  bear  its  honors  more  proudly  than  she  the 
clustering  wealth  of  her  own  black  tresses.  But  things  were 
not  desdned  to  continue  long  in  such  an  even  course.  Adam 
Brown  died,  lamented  as  men  who  "act  well  their  parts" 
always  will  be,  and  left  his  daughter  an  heiress. 

Of  such  stuff  as  this  are  American  aristocrats  made — they 

VOL.  n.  5* 


54  BORN    TO    WEAR    A    COKONET. 

lay  the  parent  who  has  toiled  for  them  in  his  grave,  and  rear 
the  fabric  of  their  miserable,  degrading  glory  on  his  ashes. 
Their  fathers  are  honest  laborers,  they  are  spendthrifts  and 
mountebanks,  and  their  children,  if  no  worse,  are  beggars. 
(Dear  reader  !  a  word  in  your  ear.  From  the  dash  a  couple 
of  sentences  back,  not  a  word  of  all  this  rant  is  mine ;  but, 
unluckily,  there  is  leaning  over  my  shoulder  a  Democratic 
monomaniac  —  a  genuine  JefFersonian  Polk-and-Texas-man, 
as  he  calls  himself,  and  I  must  needs  submit,  now  and  then, 
to  an  interpolation.) 

It  was  a  sad  day  when  our  clique  of  exclusives  was  broken 
up  by  the  loss  of  the  nucleus  round  which  Ave  gathered ;  but 
we  all  promised  never,  never  to  forget  Rosina  Brown,  and 
kept  the  promise  as  well  as  school-girls  usually  do.  In  a 
short  time  rumor  brought  to  our  ears  something,  I  scarce 
know  what,  about  her  marriage  ;  and,  one  by  one,  most  of 
us  followed  in  her  wake,  till  scarce  a  heart  in  our  little  band 
but  beat  the  echo  to  another's  throbbings.  Then  we  were 
scattered  widely ;  none  but  us  "  little  ones "  remaining  at 
Alderbrook,  and  we  were  of  course  so  fluttered  at  the  idea  of 
growing  up  into  womanhood  as  to  forget  our  a-b-c  days  en- 
tirely. Even  our  little  keepsakes  found  their  way  into  the 
ashes,  or  at  best  some  old  bag  or  oaken  chest  in  the  garret ; 
and  scarce  a  trace  remains  to  tell  of  by-gone  days,  except, 
now  and  then,  a  faded  flower  within  the  heart,  which  the 
dews  of  memory  cannot  soften  into  life.  Thus  lasting  are  the 
friendships  founded  on  a  momentary  fancy,  and  nourished  by 
flattery.  Sometimes  I  felt  some  interest  —  not  curiosity,  oh, 
no  !  —  in  the  fate  of  my  dear  Rosina;  but  I  always  quieted 
myself  with  the  reflection  that  she  must  be  the  star  of  some 
proud  circle ;  and,  if  truth  must  be  told,  I  had  become  so  in 
love  with  the  quiet,  simple  beauties  of  our  darling  Underbill, 
that  I  valued  her  estate  but  lightly,  however  high  it  might  be. 
But  of  its  elevation  I  doubted  not;  and  when  fame  conde- 
scended, now  and  then,  to  waft  the  name  of  some  beautiful 
lady,  one  who  was  the  cynosure  of  all  eyes  in  her  own  land, 


BOKN    TO    WEAR    A    CORONET.  55 

across  the  Atlantic,  I  involuntarily  inquired  if  she  were  noi 
American  born. 

More  than  a  dozen  years  had  passed  when  I  took  a  journey 
to  the  far  west.  Oh !  those  wild,  luxuriant  woods  !  Every 
pulse  within  me  dances  at  the  remembrance  of  them,  and 
even  yet  my  heart  flutters  like  a  caged  bird  in  sight  of  its  own 
free  heaven.  How  I  clapped  my  hands,  and  laughed,  and 
shouted  in  baby-like  glee,  until  the  old  woods  rang  with 
ten  thousand  answering  echoes.  Then  how  I  sat  and 
dreamed,  till  fancy  transported  me  to  gay  Sherwood,  and  I 
detected  among  the  changing  foliage  the  Lincoln  green,  and 
started  at  every  leaf  that  rustled,  expecting  to  see  peering  out 
upon  me  the  face  of  bold  Robin  Hood,  or  some  one  of  his 
merry  foresters.  Oh !  beautiful  wild,  wild  west !  I  love 
thee,  not  "  despite  thy  faults,"  but,  as  rare  Elia  did  things 
scarce  more  loveable,  "  faults  and  all."  I  love  even  thy  cor- 
duroy roads,  mud  and  underbrush,  log  houses  without  win- 
dows, quizzing  inhabitants,  and  gruff,  bragging  hosts,  who 
think  it  very  strange  that  people  can  have  any  objection  to 
sleeping  a  dozen  in  a  room,  particularly  if  it  be  summer,  and 
that  room  has  no  air-hole  but  a  chink  in  the  wall,  made  for 
the  especial  benefit  of  beetles  and  musquitoes. 

We  had  left  Will  Waters'  fine  farm  away  in  the  distance, 
and  commenced  our  return  home.  Oh,  such  roads !  Our 
ample  wagon  was  like  a  miniature  ark  of  particularly  clumsy 
make,  now  rising  on  the  tip-top  of  a  billow,  and  suddenly  sink- 
ing almost  out  of  sight.  Then  we  had  an  over-turn,  and  that 
was  the  climax  of  the  day's  enjoyment ;  for  nobody  was  hurt, 
and  everybody  laughed,  and  perpetrated  stale  witticisms  and 
laughed  at  them  again  ;  till  the  birds  were  no  doubt  convinced 
that  upsetting  a  big  travelling-wagon  is  one  of  the  rarest  sport* 
we  humans  engage  in.  Next  the  horses,  panting  as  though 
worn  out  by  their  own  strong  will,  set  their  forward  feet  stub- 
bornly down,  refusing  to  part  company  with  the  turf  even  for 
an  instant ;  the  driver  flourished  his  whip  and  swore  roundly  ; 
the  gentlemen  coaxed  the  horses,  soothed  the  driver,  and 
laughed  with  us,  who,  with  comical  glances,  half  of  mirth  half 


56  BORN    TO    WEAR    A    CORONET. 

of  anxiety,  nibbled  the  tips  of  our  kid  gloves  and  wondered 
what  we  should  do.  Then  all  at  once  one  prying  fellow  of 
our  party  announced  that  a  spring  was  broken,  a  pin  lost,  01 
something  of  that  sort  had  occurred,  which  women  are  sure 
to  get  wrong  if  they  mention  it  afterwards  ;  to  which  the  pro- 
voking driver  responded  that  a  horse  had  lost  a  shoe.  And 
so,  as  in  duty  bound,  we  all  laughed  again,  not  heartilv,  as 
before,  but  a  nervous,  hysterical  laugh.  The  gentlemen 
looked  perplexed ;  we  cast  sidelong  glances  at  the  woods,  as 
though  the  wolves  had  already  smelt  out  our  discomfiture,  and 
were  only  hiding  behind  the  nearest  trees  till  night-fall ;  and 
the  driver  used  harder  words  than  ever.  A  consultation  was 
now  held,  rather  short  to  be  sure,  as  consultations  are  apt  to 
be  when  there  remains  but  one  path  to  choose  ;  and  then  each 
gentleman  tucked  his  lady  under  his  arm,  and  on  we  jogged 
as  merrily  as  before.  It  might  be  five  miles,  indeed  it  might 
be  twenty,  to  any  human  habitation,  but  no  —  it  was  only  one. 
A  neat  log  cabin,  situated  in  the  very  centre  of  a  Paradisal 
bower,  its  white-washed  walls  nearly  concealed  by  woodbine 
and  eglantine,  loomed  up  from  an  expanse  of  cleared  land  ; 
and,  all  at  once,  our  rejoiced  party  discovered  that  we  were 
very  tired,  and  could  not  have  lived  to  walk  farther  than  this 
one  mile.  Beautiful  dark-eyed  children,  in  neat,  coarse 
dresses,  were  playing  about  the  cottage,  and  interrupting  with 
the  cry — "Oh!  look  here,  father!" — "Father!  Robin  has 
hit  the  target!" — a  tall,  sun-embrowned,  intellectual  looking 
man,  who  was  reading  in  the  doorway.  We  were  cordially 
welcomed  by  this  man,  and  shown  into  a  little  room  full  of 
flowers  and  green  bushes,  through  the  leaves  of  which  the 
hot  air,  made  heavy  by  the  weight  of  the  sunshine,  cooled 
itself  and  dallied  lovingly  with  the  flowers,  then  came  to  play 
about  us  who  knew  so  well  how  to  appreciate  both  its  fresh- 
ness and  its  perfume. 

"  A  little  paradise  ! "  whispered  I. 

"  Almost  equal  to  the  nestling-place  of  your  friend  Nora," 
returned  J — ,  in  the  same  tone. 


BORN    TO    WEAR    A    CORONET.  57 

"  A  pretty  good  house-keeper  for  the  woods,  I  imagine," 
added  another  of  our  party. 

"  House-keeper,  indeed !  Who  would  think  of  a  house- 
keeper's arranging  all  this  ?  It  was  undoubtedly  some  little 
sprite  with  taste  enough  to  prefer  such  a  bright  spot  to  fairy- 
land ! "  And  I  tossed  my  head  in  make-believe  playfulness  ; 
but,  in  reality,  feeling  quite  resentful  that  any  one  should 
think  of  such  prosaic  things  as  house-keeping  in  a  place  like 
this. 

So  I  looked  about  among  the  foliage  for  my  sylvan  deity, 
but  nothing  was  there  more  fairy-like  than  a  domesticated 
robin,  which,  perched  on  a  fresh  bough  that  waved  above  the 
snowy  pine  mantel,  was  practising  a  little  duet  with  its  part- 
ner in  the  fragrant  bass-wood,  just  beyond  the  court-yard 
fence.  But  we  had  no  more  time  for  observation  or  remark. 
Our  hostess,  a  young  woman  of  dignified,  matronly  air,  as 
unlike  a  fairy  as  anything  you  can  imagine,  came  in  to  wel- 
come us ;  and,  shortly  after,  we  were  seated  around  a  plenti- 
ful board,  smoking  with  hot  corn  cakes,  and  the  most  fragrant 
imperial,  and  —  oh!  didn't  we  do  justice  to  these  same? 
And  did  the  fresh  cream,  and  the  strawberries,  and  the  snowy 
cold  bread  for  those  who  preferred  it,  and  the  raspberry  jam, 
or  any  of  the  other  nice  things,  suffer  from  neglect  ?  During 
the  repast  the  fine  eyes  of  our  hostess  frequently  turned  on 
me,  and  there  was  such  a  peculiar  attraction  in  their  deep 
darkness,  that  mine  invariably  met  them.  Then  there  was  a 
little  blushing,  a  little  confusion  on  both  sides,  and  a  resolu- 
tion on  my  part  not  to  be  so  rude  and  stare  so  again.  After 
tea  we  repaired  to  the  little  embowered  parlor,  while  our 
hostess  was  "  putting  things  to  rights,"  and  in  less  than  a  half 
hour  were  joined  by  her  and  her  husband.  They  kept  up  an 
interesting  conversation,  but  I  was  silent  and  perplexed. 
There  was  something  in  the  face,  air,  and  manner  of  this 
woodland  lady  that  was  familiar ;  and  at  the  same  time  I  was 
sure  that  I  had  never  seen  any  one  so  dignified,  so  self-pos- 
sessed, and  yet  so  simple  and  unaffected  in  every  word  and 


58  BORN  TO  WEAR  A  CORONET. 

movement.  I  ran  over  my  list  of  acquaintances  that  had 
"  married  and  gone  west ;"  but  no,  it  was  none  of  these. 

"  Fanny!"  exclaimed  J.,  somewhat  impatiently,  "are  you 
dreaming  ?  I  have  spoken  to  you  three  times  without  getting 
an  answer.  Our  host  tells  me  that  his  wife  spent  some  of 
her  school-days  at  Alderbrook." 

"At  Alderbrook?" 

It  came  like  a  flash  of  light. 

"  Rosina  Brown ! " 

"  My  little  Fanny ! "  and  we  were  locked  fast  in  each  oth- 
er's arms. 

My  countess,  my  queen,  here  in  the  wilderness,  actually 
washing  her  own  dishes,  and  sweeping  the  floor  of  her  own 
log-house,  and  "  not  always  with  a  civilized  broom  either,"  as 
she  laughingly  asserted.  Only  think  of  it !  Of  course  I  was 
astounded  ;  and  no  wonder  that  I  did  n't  venture  on  asking  a 
single  question,  while  she  overpowered  me  with  a  whole  vol- 
ley. But  at  midnight,  when  all  were  asleep  within,  and  the 
stars  alone  kept  watch  without,  (Rosina  assured  me  that  there 
was  not  a  wolf  in  the  whole  neighborhood,)  we  stole  away, 
and  beneath  the  silent  trees  renewed  our  former  intimacy. 

"  And  so  you  wonder,"  said  Rosina,  "  at  my  being  hero. 
Well,  so  do  I  sometimes ;  but  oftener  I  wonder  why  I  am  so 
happy,  so  contented,  so  willingly  circumscribed  in  my  Avants 
and  desires,  and  yet  so  free  in  soul  and  fancy.  Believe  me, 
Fanny,  I  never  before  knew  a  single  day  of  such  pure,  unal- 
loyed happiness  as  I  have  enjoyed  every  day  since  we  shel- 
tered our  pretty  birds  within  this  forest  nook.  Don't  you 
think  they  are  pretty,  Fanny  ?  They  stole  their  red  cheeks 
from  the  dewy  flowers,  and  their  bright  eyes  have  grown 
brighter  by  looking  on  the  beautiful  things  about  them.  Then 
these  stately  old  trees  have  made  them  thoughtful  and  deep- 
hearted  ;  and  they  are  little  musicians,  too,  vying  with  the 
woodland  minstrels  in  melody." 

"  Perfect  cherubs — and  so  happy  and  healthful !" 

"  Yes — happy,  and  healthful,  and  frolicsome,  as  the  young 
colts  you  must  have  passed  when  you  wound  around  the  bend 


BORN   TO  WEAR    A    CORONET.  59 

in  the  creek.  They  used  often  to  be  sick,  and  I  watched 
beside  them  until  all  the  color  was  gone  from  my  cheek,  and  I 
acquired  this  stoop  in  my  shoulders — see!  I  never  shall  be 
straight  again ! " 

"Oh!  I  should  n't  observe  it  at  all — it  is  very  slight  in- 
deed, and  you  will  soon  overcome  it.  But  do  tell  me  how  it 
happened  that  you,  of  all  others,  should  marry  a  farmer,  and 
—and—" 

"  A  poor  man,  you  would  say.     I  did  not." 

And  then  I  listened  to  a  story,  of  which  I  should  never 
have  dreamed  that  Rosina  Brown  could  be  the  subject. 

Rosina  had  met  Richard  Merrival  several  times  before  she 
came  to  Alderbrook,  and  their  acquaintance  was  renewed 
every  vacation.  So  when  she  had  "  finished,"  and  he  threw 
off  the  student  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar,  it  was  no  great 
wonder  that  he  pleaded  his  first  cause  in  the  queenly  presence 
of  Rosina  Brown.  It  were  a  pity,  indoed,  if  such  a  handsome 
young  barrister  should  plead  in  vain ;  and  so  Merrival  en- 
snared his  lady-bird,  and  bore  her  away  to  town  ;  and  there, 
in  an  elegant  mansion,  surrounded  by  every  luxury,  their 
chief  study  seemed  to  be  how  to  make  everything  about  them 
more  luxurious  still.  At  length  their  means  failed,  and  Mer- 
rival applied  to  his  father.  But  this  fountain  of  wealth 
was  dry.  Failure  had  followed  up  the  old  man's  golden 
schemes,  and  Richard  Merrival  and  his  father  were  beggars. 
Rosina  saw  herself  falling ;  she  knew  that  the  magic  circle  of 
which  she  had  been  the  brightest  star  was  shutting  her  with- 
out its  pale ;  the  glittering  bubble,  which,  in  her  girlish  days, 
she  believed  it  the  chief  aim  of  her  life  to  grasp  closely,  was 
crushed  within  her  hand.  All  that  was  bright,  all  that  was 
gladsome,  all  that  was  worthy  of  possession  in  this  world  — 
every  meteor  that  for  long  years  she  had  gazed  upon  and 
believed  a  sun — all  the  roses  that  had  clustered  so  luxuriantly 
about  her  path — all  receded  now,  and  the  world  lay  stretched 
out  before  her,  a  wilderness.  And  yet,  an  old  friend  came, 
one  who  had  loved  her  when  a  little  girl  in  the  inn  by  the 
way-side,  and  she  would  not  know  him.  No!  come  poverty, 


50  BOHN    TO    WEAB    A    CORONET. 

come  beggary,  come  starvation  even,  —  these  should  not  bow 
her  spirit  to  go  back  to  things  she  had  despised.  She  could 
suffer,  but  she  would  not  bend.  And  so  the  old  friend  went 
away,  and  Rosina  wondered  where  she  should  find  bread  for 
her  children. 

But  Merrival,  though  he  had  spent  years  in  idleness,  was 
gifted  and  eloquent.  He  knew  that  his  profession  was  a  for- 
tune in  itself,  and  he  gathered  strength,  as  manliness  ever 
does  when  struggling  with  obstacles.  With  a  heart  some- 
what lightened,  he  sat  down  by  his  humble  fireside  at  evening, 
to  gain  sympathy  from  the  loved  ones.  But  discontent  and 
misery  were  there.  His  wife  complained;  his  pampered 
children  missed  their  accustomed  luxuries,  and  they  com- 
plained also ;  recrimination  followed  between  the  husband  and 
the  wife,  and  they  lay  down  to  rest  with  hearts  full  of  bitter- 
ness toward  each  other.  When  the  whole  world  is  the  object 
of  bitterness  the  individual  is  never  spared. 

Weeks  passed,  and  Richard  Merrival  grew  gay  again ;  but 
it  was  over  the  cup  of  death.  His  laugh  was  long  and  loud, 
and  his  eye  had  a  fearful  sparkle  to  it — a  flash  that  every  one 
knew  was  but  the  kindling  of  pent-up  misery.  The  little  cot- 
tage grew  dark  and  darker,  the  loving  heart  grew  desolate ; 
but  on  the  top  wave  of  anguish  rode  always  the  harrowing 
thought  — "  Bread !  bread  for  the  little  ones  whom  God  has 
given  me ! " 

Months — years  went  by,  and  Rosina  was  a  drunkard's 
wife!  Not  a  tithe  of  the  degradation  of  such  a  lot  was 
abated ;  but  the  bitterness  of  her  spirit  was  drowned  in  sor- 
row. She  had  watched  day  and  night  by  the  bed-side  of 
innocence,  and  she  grew  gentle  in  such  an  atmosphere.  Then 
she  laid  two  of  her  sweet  nurslings  in  the  grave,  and  so  a  link 
was  forged  between  her  heart  and  heaven. 

A  change  came  over  Merrival.  Poverty  had  taken  up  its 
abode  by  his  fireside ;  suffering  and  sorrow  were  there,  but 
none  of  these  had  driven  him  thence.  It  was  the  bitterness 
of  crushed  pride  ;  and  that  was  a  guest  there  no  longer.  He 
laid  his  hand  upon  the  icy  forehead  of  his  dead  child,  his  first- 


BORN   TO    WEAR    A   CORONET.  61 

born  darling  boy,  and  took  upon  his  soul  a  vow,  and  that  vow 
never  was  broken.  And  now  behold  them,  pale  and  weary, 
but  calm  and  hopeful,  wending  their  way  to  the  far  west, 
where  they  might  forget  their  vain  dreams  and  their  degrada- 
tion together. 

"  We  are  yet  poor  in  gold  and  lands,"  continued  Rosina, 
"  but  are  rich  in  health  and  peace,  in  our  children,  and  in 
each  other.  And  now,  my  dear  Fanny,"  she  added,  as  we 
turned  toward  the  house,  "  I  am  as  aristocratic  as  ever.  We 
lord  it  over  the  ndtives  of  these  wilds,  the  birds  and  beasts,  as 
though  we  were  peers  of  the  realm  —  Nature's  realm  —  and 
claim  the  exclusive  privilege  of  making  each  other  happy,  and 
of  offering  our  humble  roof  to  the  stranger  benighted  in  these 
woods,  —  privileges  which  not  a  living  thing  about  us  ventures 
to  exercise." 

"  But  do  you  never  long  for  society,  Rosina  ?" 

"  Society?" 

She  led  me  to  a  couch  where  two  living  rose-buds,  two 
bright-lipped  sleeping  Hebes,  lay  nestling  in  each  other's 
arms,  and  throwing  back  rich  clusters  of  golden  curls,  kissed 
cheek,  and  lip,  and  forehead,  —  a  gentle,  loving  pressure,  so 
mother-like  that  a  tear  sprang  to  my  eye,  for  I  seemed  again 
lying  in  my  own  little  cot  at  Alderbrook. 

"  Look  at  these,  Fanny ;  and  my  two  noble  boys  !  What 
more  society  could  I  desire,  unless  it  be  his !  I  wish  you 
knew  my  husband,  Fanny.  I  used  to  boast  that  he  was  a 
perfect  gentleman,  and  so  he  was ;  but  that  is  an  abused  term, 
and  now  I  know  the  highest  praise  that  I  can  offer  is  that  he 
is  a  man!  —  in  heart,  and  soul,  and  intellect,  a  man  —  full  of 
integrity,  and  courage,  and  strength,  and  truth  —  in  short,  my 
.  little  Fanny,  he  is,  as  I  suppose  every  loving  wife  thinks  of 
her  lucky  Benedict  —  the  one  man  in  the  world ! " 

It  was  almost  morning  when  Mrs.  Merrival  and  myself 
gave  the  good-night  kiss,  and  turned  away  to  dream  of  our 
.school-days  at  Alderbrook. 

When  the  sun  arose,  and  the  discovery  was  made  that  we 
should  IK-  detained  a  whole  day  and  night  longer  in  our  par- 

VOL.  11.  6 


62  BORN    TO    WEAR    A    CORONET. 

lor-bower,  my  resignation  on  the  occasion  entitled  me  to  become 
pattern-woman  for  the  whole  party ;  and  our  hostess  looked 
anything  but  sad  at  our  discomfiture.  It  was  a  happy  day  ; 
and,  when  evening  came  again,  I  no  longer  wondered  that 
Rosina  was  satisfied  with  her  society.  In  the  course  of  the 
day  I  took  a  peep  into  the  little  library,  composed  of  a  few 
choice  volumes,  to  which  the  Merrivals  had  clung  in  weal  and 
woe;  walked  into  the  garden  and  viewed,  not  only  the  wall 
flowers  and  sweet  peas,  but  the  beans  and  cabbages ;  and  then 
went  to  the  log  barn  across  the  creek,  and  brought  in  our 
own  hands  the  fresh  eggs  that  were  served  up  for  dinner.  1 
learned,  also,  that  Master  Robert  Merrival,  the  active  little 
fellow  who  had  just  "  hit  the  target,"  on  our  arrival,  mounted 
the  pony  Roger  every  Saturday,  and  rode  off  fifteen  miles,  to 
the  nearest  post-office,  whence  he  returned  well  laden  with 
papers  and  letters. 

Another  morning  came,  and  we  turned  with  reluctance 
from  our  parlor-bower,  and  with  still  more  reluctance  from  the 
dear  ones  who  had  constructed  it,  to  pursue  our  journey. 
The  adieus,  the  prayers  and  prophecies,  the  clasping  of  hands 
and  kissing  of  lips,  I  will  not  attempt  to  describe ;  neither  the 
heart-swell  that  it  took  so  many  miles  to  calm ;  for  I  would 
not  leave  a  tear  here  at  the  close  of  my  tale.  So  we  parted, 
the  Alderbrook  Zenobia  and  her  little  worshipper.  A  strange 
throne  that  of  rare  Rosina  Brown's !  —  her  hut  away  in  the 

green  wilderness.     And   yet  —  and   yet,  I   do  believe 

Well !  I  will  not  brave  a  straight-jacket  for  the  sake  of  having 
my  say ;  but  whatever  mistake  Fortune  may  have  made  in 
the  execution  of  her  plan,  of  one  thing  I  am  certain,  my 
.  proud-browed  friend  was  at  least  born  to  wear  a  coronet.  J. 
says  I  am  mistaken  ;  that  I  must  be  thinking  of  her  husband's 


63 


WILLARD   LAWSON. 

CHAPTER    I. LEAVING    HOME. 

"  You  will  be  sorry  for  it,  Willard." 

"  Sorry !  I  tell  you,  Sophy,  I  have  been  in  leading  strings 
long  enough ;  and  I  will  go  where  I  can,  now  and  then,  do  as 
I  choose ! " 

"  You  will  be  back  in  less  than  three  days." 

"  No,  not  in  less  than  three  years.  Come,  tell  me  what 
I  shall  bring  you  from  over  the  seas ;  they  have  all  sorts  of 
girncracks  in  the  Indies,  and,  maybe,  I  shall  go  to  China, 
or — " 

"  Or  take  a  peep  into  Symm's  hole,  or  a  ride  on  the  roc's 
back.  Bring  me  a  pair  of  slippers  from  Lilliput." 

"  I  will  bring  you  a  pair  so  small  that  you  cannot  wear 
them,  if  that  is  what  you  like ;  and  a  rare  India  shawl,  to  beat 
cousin  Meg's." 

"  I  hope  you  will  get  your  purse  well  replenished ;  I  dare 
say  you  will  find  them  in  New  York." 

"  New  York ! " 

"  Don't  speak  so  contemptuously  of  our  mammoth  city, 
Will ;  there  will  be  a  little  fading  out  of  those  handsome  curls, 
I  dare  say,  before  you  will  see  a  larger." 

"  I  tell  you,  Sophy,  I  am  going  to  sea.  What  part  of  the 
world  I  may  visit,  I  don't  know ;  but  it  will  be  many  a  long 
year  before  you  will  see  me  again." 

"  Nonsense,  Will,  think  of  scrambling  up  ropes  and  perch- 
ing in  the  air  like  a  monkey !  You  have  always  had  a  taste 
that  way,  I  know,  but  try  it  in  a  gale,  and  you  would  soon 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  you  had  a  little  too  much  of  it. 
Come,  this  freak  of  yours  is  all  nonsense ;  be  obedient,  and 
father  will  be  kind  to  you,  but  you  know  it  was  wrong  for  you 
to  go " 


04  W1LLARD     LAWSON. 

"  I  know  it  was  not  wrong,  Sophy,  and  I  am  glad  I  went. 
I  should  like  to  know  what  right  anybody  has  to  hinder  me 
from  speaking  to  a  school-fellow  now  and  then,  or  even  from 
shaking  my  toe  in  a  dance,  if  I  choose.  Wondrous  good 
some  people  are,  indeed !  I  wish  they  would  tell  me  how 
much  worse  dancing  is  than  anger ;  and  did  n't  you  see  how 
pale  he  turned?  James  turned  pale,  too,  for  I  believe  he 
thought  I  would  get  knocked  down.  I  almost  wish  he  had 
done  it." 

"Willard!" 

"  He  drives  me  to  it,  Sophy." 

"  If  you  go  away  with  these  bad  feelings,  I  am  afraid  you 
never  will  come  back  again." 

"Maybe — but — yes,  I  shall — of  course  I  shall.  I  shall 
want  to  see  you,  and — and  all.  Oh,  I  shall  come  back  some- 
time." 

"  I  am  afraid  not,  Willard." 

The  observation  seemed  to  induce  a  new  train  of  thought, 
for  the  boy's  excited  countenance  assumed  an  unusual  sober- 
ness ;  a  tear  crept  to  his  eye  and  twinkled  on  the  upraised 
lash,  but  he  brushed  it  hastily  away,  and  with  a  "  never  fear 
for  that,  Sophy,"  sprang  to  the  door,  as  though  afraid  to  trust 
his  voice  with  another  word.  The  sister  waited  awhile  for  his 
return,  thinking  that  he  would  at  least  bid  her  a  good-night ; 
but  when  she  perceived  that  he  was  not  coming,  she  began  to 
persuade  herself  that  he  was  ashamed  of  his  folly  and  would 
be  in  better  temper  in  the  morning,  or  that  her  father  would 
abate  some  of  his  sternness ;  at  any  rate,  somehow,  the  diffi- 
culty would  be  settled,  as  others  had  been  before ;  and  so  she 
went  to  sleep.  These  troubles  were  nothing  new  to  her. 
Judge  Lawson  was  a  noble-minded,  upright  man,  who  exer- 
cised a  kind  of  patriarchal  sway,  not  only  in  his  family,  but 
over  the  whole  neighborhood.  He  was  a  good  father  and  a 
kind  neighbor  in  the  main,  but  stern  and  self-willed ;  all 
suavity  and  gentleness  when  obeyed,  but  woe  to  the  luckless 
one  who  dared  to  oppose  his  plans  or  wishes !  To  such, 
if  the  truth  must  be  owned,  Judge  Lawson  was  a  tyrant.  He 


\VILLARD    LAWSOJS.  65 

had  managed,  however,  without  unpleasant  bickerings,  to 
bring  up  his  family  in  the  strictest  integrity ;  and  they  were 
now  about  him,  doing  honor  to  his  gray  hairs.  They  had 
yielded  to  him;  he  had  led  them  wisely,  and  now  they 
honored  him  with  all  their  hearts.  Sons  and  sons-in-law 
looked  up  to  him  with  reverence ;  all  but  a  bold,  daring  boy, 
his  youngest  child,  the  handsomest  and  the  bravest,  but,  alas  ! 
50  full  of  faults  !  Willard  had  talents,  but  he  did  not  like  the 
trouble  of  cultivating  them ;  like  many  another,  he  was  so 
well  satisfied  with  his  natural  acuteness,  that  he  could  see  no 
necessity  for  bestowing  labor  on  the  mental  soil.  Mistaken 
Willard  !  Mistaken  thousands  !  He  was  spirited  as  a  young 
colt  that  spurns  the  bit,  and  grew  restive  under  his  father's 
control  before  he  had  reached  a  dozen  summers.  Now  he  had 
grown  into  a  tall  stripling,  and  considered  himself  very  nearly 
a  man,  and  was  he  to  be  led  about  like  a  baby?  I  think — I 
do  not  know — but  I  really  think  that  if  Judge  Lawson  had 
not  been  quite  so  authoritative  and  unbending,  his  son  Willard 
would  have  been  more  manageable  ;  but  yet  I  must  admit  that 
the  Judge  never  required  anything  of  him  which  was  not 
right.  Then  Willard  was  frank  and  joyous,  with  a  heart  full 
of  generous  sentiments  and  brimming  over  with  sympathy  and 
kindness ;  and  it  must  be  owned  that  there  was  something 
which  shut  down  over  his  spirit  like  a  lid  whenever  he  entered 
his  father's  house.  He  had  felt  it  when  a  little  boy  playing  in 
the  sunshine  on  the  lawn ;  and  used  to  think,  when  called  in 
at  evening,  of  the  atmosphere  of  a  damp,  dark  cellar  in  the 
spring-time ;  but  the  uncomfortable  feeling  had  increased  as 
he  grew  older,  and  now  Willard  Lawson  did  not  love  his 
home.  It  was  a  rare  good  place  for  his  intellect,  but  there 
was  no  room  there  for  his  heart  to  expand.  All  were  kind, 
his  sister  Sophia  especially  so,  but  it  was  a  kindness  which 
was  always  smooth,  and  even,  and  cold ;  no  bubbling,  no  sud- 
den gushes,  like  the  spring  which  lures  the  travel-stained 
wanderer  from  the  way-side,  or  the  fountain  leaping  up  at  the 
kiss  of  the  breezes  and  the  glance  of  the  san-light ;  but  a  quiet, 
calm,  lifeless  sort  of  kindness,  that  seemed  to  lack  that  uni- 
VOL.  n.  6* 


66  WILLARD     LAWSON. 

versal  inspiration  —  love.  So  he  went  away  from  home  for 
society,  not  always  selecting  the  best,  for  how  could  the  boy 
know  how  to  choose  rightly?  He  found  more  sympathy 
without  doors  than  within,  and  so  Willard  Lawson,  yomr_r  ;r; 
he  was,  had  set  both  feet  resolutely  in  a  most  dangerous?  path. 
Beware,  Willard !  Nay,  but  he  will  not  beware ;  he  has 
"  been  in  leading  strings  long  enough,"  and  he  has  resolved 
on  emancipation. 

How  much  Willard  Lawson  slept  that  night  I  will  not 
attempt  to  say ;  how  many  misgivings  visited  his  heart  in  the 
lone  darkness,  or  how  much  dearer  his  home  became  as  he 
thought  upon  the  words  of  his  sister :  "  If  you  leave  us  with 
these  bad  feelings,  I  am  afraid  you  never  will  come  back 
again."  The  thoughts  and  emotions  were  his  own,  his  own 
to  brood  over,  his  own  to  bury;  forget  he  probably  never 
would.  Morning  dawned  at  last,  and  by  the  first  faint  glim- 
mer Willard  rose  and  dressed  himself.  He  then  walked 
about  the  little  room  as  though  taking  a  farewell  of  every 
article  of  furniture,  and  looked  from  the  window,  and  walked 
again,  till  a  tear,  actually  a  big  round  tear,  rolled  from  his 
eyes  like  a  red-hot  bullet,  and  dropped  upon  his  hand.  He 
was  alone  now,  and  so  it  was  no  shame  to  weep;  and  Willard 
did  not  even  put  a  hand  to  his  eyes  while  the  liquid  sorrow 
rained  down  over  his  cheeks  in  torrents.  Poor  boy  !  It  is  a 
pitiful  thing  to  forsake  the  roof  which  sheltered  us  in  our 
helplessness ;  where  the  only  real  love  the  wide  earth  knows 
beamed  on  our  infant  eyes ;  where  tenderness  and  purity  and 
truth  bud  and  blossom  in  the  sunshine  of  kindness  and  the 
dew  of  innocence ;  the  dear  hallowed  hearth-stone,  circled 
round  with  sacred  affections, — pitiful  to  leave  it,  and  for 
what?  Thank  God  for  the  gilded  veil  behind  which  the 
Protean  .future  is  allowed  to  conceal  her  features !  Who 
would  look  into  the  book  of  fate  and  read  at  a  glance  his  own 
destiny?  Willard  Lawson  had  no  very  bright  hopes  this 
morning ;  for  the  false  star  glittering  but  yesterday  before  his 
eyes,  had  set  in  darkness,  been  extinguished  in  tears.  He 
had  laughed  and  sported  in  that  room,  he  had  slept  there 


WILLAHD    J.AWSON.  67 

while  angels  guarded  him,  he  had  lisped  his  first  prayers 
there,  arid  there  too  had  he  almost  forgotten  the  duty.  He 
was  still  but  a  boy,  and  yet  he  was  very  much  changed ;  and 
he  thought  upon  this  change  with  sadness.  What  an  inno- 
cent little  fellow  he  was  when  he  went  to  sleep  hugging  his 
first  top  to  his  bosom, 'and  thinking  what  a  dear  good  papa 
his  was  to  bring  such  an  invaluable  present  from  the  town ! 
And  how  often,  in  his  childish  reverence,  had  he  thought  of 
that  same  father,  and  wondered  if  his  Heavenly  Father  could 
be  any  better  or  any  wiser !  And  how  disobedient  he  had 
been  of  late,  and  self-willed,  and  disrespectful ;  in  actions 
rather  than  words,  and  in  thoughts  more  than  either.  Dost 
thou  relent,  Willard  ?  Is  there  not  a  softening  in  thy  heart  ? 
Are  not  thy  lips  moving  to  the  words,  "  I  will  arise  and  go 
unto  my  father  ? "  Ah  !  stay  thee,  rash  youth  !  Gently, 
gently !  There  is  a  balm  in  penitential  tears  !  I  already  see 
the  rainbow  arching  thy  heart.  It  is  a  precious  moment, 
Willard ;  beware  !  Nay,  all  is  lost !  That  movement  below, 
followed  by  the  whistle  of  Bluff  Bill,  the  man-of-all-work,  has 
sent  other  thoughts  into  the  head  of  the  stripling,  and  the 
scale  is  turned.  The  tears  are  brushed  away,  and  in  quiet, 
but  hurriedly,  the  room  is  left  without  a  tenant. 

Willard  stood  in  the  yard,  beneath  the  dear  old  trees  where 
he  had  sported  in  childhood.  The  large,  long-limbed  butter- 
nut had  never  seemed  so  beautiful  as  now,  since  the  day  when, 
an  urchin  in  petticoats,  he  had  scrambled  up  its  jagged  trunk 
to  get  a  peep  into  the  snug  little  home  of  Madam  Redbreast, 
and  came  down  again  amid  huzzas  and  chidings ;  and  as  for 
the  elm  trees,  he  had  pruned  them  himself  many  a  time,  and 
he  had  watched  them  year  after  year,  till  he  knew  the  position 
of  every  graceful  branch  against  the  sky,  as  he  knew  the 
places  of  the  children  at  his  father's  table.  There  was  a 
locust  precisely  his  own  age,  and  the  circumstance  had  been 
so  often  mentioned,  that  he  felt  as  though  somehow  that  tree 
belonged  to  him — was  linked  to  his  life — was  a  part  of  him- 
self, which  he  ought  to  carry  away,  or  rather  which  he  ought 
to  stay  and  cherish.  He  cast  a  glance  around  to  see  that  no 


00  WILLARD    LAWSON. 

one  was  near  ;  and  then  he  threw  his  arms  about  the  dear  old 
tree,  and  pressed  his  lips  to  the  rough,  dew-spangled  bark,  as 
though  it  had  been  a  living  object  of  love.  This  done,  he 
looked  back  upon  the  house  hurriedly,  and  passed  on.  In  the 
stable  stood  gay  Larry,  the  fine  young  saddle-horse,  which 
turned  at  the  sound  of  his  voice,  and  laid  his  finely  arched 
neck  over  his  shoulder,  with  all  the  affection  of  a  child  ;  and 
he  patted  the  animal  and  passed  his  hand  over  his  smooth 
glossy  skin,  and  then  buried  his  face  in  the  flowing  mane 
and  wept  unrestrainedly.  Poor  Willard  !  Larry  was  an  old 
playmate,  and  that  Larry  loved  him  was  clear,  for  to  no  other 
one  was  he  so  gentle  and  obedient.  Oh,  if  Larry  could  but 
go  with  him!  Our  hearts  warm  toward  thee,  dear  Willard, 
more  than  they  did  a  half-hour  since,  when  the  careless 
whistle  of  Bill  awakened  thee  to  all  thy  stubbornness ;  for  there 
is  that  in  thy  spirit  which  the  angels  know  to  be  priceless. 
Thou  art  even  as  mettlesome  as  thy  pet  Larry ;  but  thou  art 
good  and  noble,  too,  for  thou  lovest  the  poor  dumb  animals 
which  look  up  to  thee  for  care  and  protection,  even  as  thou 
shouldst  look  to  Heaven.  Mayst  thou  never  lose  the  manly 
softness,  young  Willard !  The  lad  found  as  he  passed  on 
that  he  had  bestowed  more  love  on  Lawson  farm  than  ho  had 
imagined.  The  cows  —  one  in  particular,  which  had  always 
been  called  his — looked  into  his  face  with  a  kind  of  pleading 
mournfulness — a  sad,  beseeching  expression,  that  seemed  to 
him  made  up  of  love  and  censure;  and  then  they  came 
lowing  after  him,  as  though  they  would  yet  entreat  his  return. 
Even  the  fowls  gathered  about  his  feet  familiarly,  and  raised 
a  chorus  of  sounds  which  it  was  not  difficult  for  him  to  inter- 
pret. "  Sir  Chaunticlere"  shook  his  long  parti-colored  plumes 
ominously,  and  sent  out  a  shrill,  high-ringing  warning ;  the 
hens,  cackling,  flocked  before  him,  like  a  swarm  of  butterflies 
in  August ;  and  a  dove  flew  from  its  perch  to  his  shoulder, 
and  then  nestled  in  his  bosom,  looking  up  to  him,  with  its 
warm,  melting  eyes  swimming  in  love  as  his  were  in  tears. 
There  is  yet  time  to  retract,  Willard.  Take  back  those  dan- 
gerous steps,  and  no  one  will  know  they  have  been  trodden. 


WILLAKD    LAWSON.  69 

No,  this  is  not  among  things  possible  to  the  boy.  The  part- 
ing is  taking  the  very  life  from  the  innermost  core  of  his 
heart,  tearing*  away  the  threads  Avhich  invisible  fingers  have 
been  braiding  within,  ever  since  his  baby  foot  first  tottered  on 
the  threshold  of  being :  but  who  ever  suspected  Willard  Law- 
son  of  wavering  or  fickleness  ?  Why,  we  might  as  soon 
expect  the  judge  himself  to  change  his  mind  and  reverse  a 
decision !  Willard,  boy  as  he  is,  will  never  hesitate  and  falter 
after  he  has  resolved ;  but  it  is  no  part  of  his  philosophy  to 
dispense  with  feeling.  Perhaps — I  am  not  sure  how  strong 
the  sense  of  right  may  be  in  his  bosom — but,  perhaps,  if  he 
were  thoroughly  convinced  that  he  was  taking  a  wrong  step, 
one  which  he  would  regret  in  all  after  life,  he  might  yet  be 
induced  to  go  back  and  nestle  again,  more  lovingly  than  ever, 
among  the  dear  old  associations  which  are  clustering  around 
him,  striving  to  entangle  for  good  his  erring  feet.  But 
Willard,  with  his  bold,  free  spirit  swelling  in  his  bosom,  will 
never  stay  with  Larry  and  the  other  dumb  things  that  love 
him,  at  what  his  boyish  inexperience  deems  a  sacrifice  of  his 
yet  unbearded  manliness. 

Willard  passed  from  the  barnyard  without  venturing  to 
look  upon  the  garden  patch,  for  he  had  had  chiding  enough 
without  listening  to  the  gentle  murmurs  of  the  green  things 
that  the  morning  breeze  was  dallying  with ;  and  leaping  the 
stile,  he  took  his  way  across  a  rich  field  of  clover,  which  the 
little  spirits  of  the  night  and  the  messenger  sun-rays  had 
decked  out  in  matchless  diadems.  Sometimes  a  little  sheet 
of  gossamer,  fastened  to  shafts  of  emerald,  gleamed  with  all 
the  colors  of  the  rainbow,  here  and  there  breaking  from  its 
fastenings,  as  highly  gifted  spirits  sometimes  sink  beneath  the 
weight  of  tfieir  own  wealth.  Spires  of  grass  bent  beneath 
clusters  of  the  same  jewels ;  and  the  fragrant  clover-heads  and 
nodding  butter-cups  flashed  and  sparkled  like  the  coronet  of  a 
duchess.  Birds,  sweet,  glad  little  creatures,  with  wings  and 
voices  but  too  familiar,  carolled  from  the  tree-tops,  or  wheeled 
and  careered  in  mid-air,  mad  with  exultant  happiness,  (blessed 
spirits  of  the  air !)  and  the  bee,  in  his  glossy  black  coat,  with 


70  W1LLAK1)   LAWSON. 

more  gold  than  even  a  gay  courtier  of  the  olden  time  would 
have  cared  to  deck  his  mantle  with,  sped  beneath  the  soft 
clouds  like  an  arrow,  and  plunged  headlong  among  the  luxu- 
riant svveets  of  the  fragrant  clover  blossoms.  How  all  these 
glad  things  contrasted  with  the  heavy  spirit  of  the  young 
wanderer !  A  stream  went  dancing  and  bubbling  by,  right 
merrily ;  and  close  beside  the  rustic  bridge  was  a  deep  place, 
where  he  had  angled  for  trout  for  many  a  summer.  Willard 
glanced  at  it  and  seemed  inclined  to  stop,  then  passed  on — 
returned  again,  and  kneeling  down,  bent  his  head  far  ovrr 
and  peered  earnestly  down  into  the  water.  A  fin  swept  by, 
with  a  thin  layer  of  silver  over  it ;  and  he  caught  a  glimpse 
of  a  mottled  back,  crimson  and  amber,  and  a  pale,  soft  azure 
in  a  setting  of  gray.  Another  followed,  and  then  came  a  troop 
of  little  silver  things,  hurrying  after  each  other,  as  though  on 
their  way  to  a  fairy  wedding,  scarce  rippling  the  water  as  they 
went.  Willard  caught  by  a  branch  of  the  birch  tree  that  grew 
there  when  he  first  opened  his  eyes  on  the  landscape,  and 
swung  himself  to  the  bank.  His  seat  was  as  soft  as  the  rich- 
est carpet,  woven  of  glossy  brown  and  gold ;  and  as  he  again 
bent  over  the  stream,  he  scooped  up  handfuls  of  the  cold  water 
and  dashed  them  over  his  burning  face,  jewelling  his  wavy 
hair  and  the  luxurious  bank  together.  Along  the  borders  of 
the  stream  grew  clumps  of  willows,  their  narrow  leaves  trem- 
bling on  the  breath  of  the  morning,  and  now  and  then  a  wild 
elm,  shagged  with  green  away  down  to  the  earth,  or  a  round- 
topped  maple,  or  a  silver-coated  beech ;  and  at  their  roots 
sprang  troops  of  flowers,  bending  their  blue  and  crimson  cups 
to  the  water,  while  in  the  spots  of  light  breaking  through  their 
branches  swarmed  clans  of  bright-hued  insects,  dipping  their 
gay  wings  in  the  liquid  gold  of  morning,  and  warming  thoir 
bloodless  limbs  at  the  heart  of  nature.  It  was  beautiful,  and 
Willard  had  often  thought  so ;  but  now  his  heart  yearned  to- 
ward the  familiar  scene,  and  he  would  have  taken  the  whole 
to  .his  bosom  and  folded  his  arms  about  it  as  tenderly  as  a 
mother  clasps  the  child  she  dotes  upon.  Again  the  tears 
rushed  to  his  eyes,  and  again  he  dashed  the  cool  water  upon 


WILLARD  LAWSON.  71 

his  face ;  and,  without  turning  for  another  glance,  hurried  on. 
The  sheep  were  speckling  the  green  of  the  neighboring  pas- 
tures, and  the  horses  were  bounding  and  tossing  their  manes 
in  play,  or  quietly  cropping  the  grass  at  their  feet ;  but  Wil- 
lard  had  grown  wiser  and  did  not  trust  himself  among  them. 
He  sprang  over  the  fence  and  proceeded  resolutely  along  the 
roadside.  But  his  trials  were  not  yet  over.  With  a  cry  of 
joy,  that  seemed  almost  human,  a  dog  rushed  over  the  banks 
among  the  thorny  bushes,  scattering  down  a  shower  of  rain- 
drops, bounded  over  the  fence,  and  leaped,  quivering  all  over 
with  gladness,  to  the  shoulders  of  his  young  master. 

"  Good  dog !  good  Rover ! "  exclaimed  the  boy,  in  a  husky, 
broken  voice,  patting  the  head  and  smoothing  the  neck  of  his 
favorite.  "  Good  fellow  !  I  did  not  want  to  scold  you,  and 
so  —  Bill  should  have  known  better  than  to  set  you  free. 
But  I  must  take  nothing,  not  even  my  own  dog,  from  the 
farm.  Go  back,  Rover,  go  back  ! " 

The  dog  seemed  to  understand  the  words,  though  they 
were  spoken  low  and  sorrowfully  and  without  a  gesture,  and 
he  looked  up  with  his  large  meek  eyes  into  the  boy's  face  — 
oh,  so  pleadingly !  Poor  Willard's  heart  had  been  swelling 
until  his  bosom  seemed  hardly  large  enough  to  contain  it,  but 
this  last  appeal  was  too  much ;  and,  with  uncontrollable  sob- 
bings, he  threw  himself  upon  the  neck  of  his  dumb  favorite, 
and  clung  to  him  as  though  he  had  no  other  associate  or  friend 
on  earth.  And  he  had  no  other  now.  Poor  Willard !  For 
awhile  the  wanderer  sobbed  on  in  utter  abandonment ;  the 
dog  now  thrusting  his  nose  into  his  bosom,  now  licking  his 
hands  and  face,  and  striving  by  such  mute  eloquence  to  win 
him  from  his  grief,  whatever  might  have  occasioned  it.  At 
last  the  youth  mastered  the  emotion,  and  with  trembling  lip 
and  swimming  eye  stood  again  upon  his  feet. 

"Go  home,  Rover  —  go!  Go,  Rover!  Rascal!  down! 
down  !  go  home  !  " 

The  dog,  at  the  first  command,  given  falteringly,  had 
sprung  again  to  his  master's  shoulders,  wagging  his  tail,  as 
though  to  congratulate  him  on  his  restored  calmness.  But  at 


72  WIU.AKD    LAWSON. 

the  last  words,  spoken  authoritatively,  he  crouched  at  his  feet, 
whining  piteously,  and  looking  up  to  his  face  with  the  most 
beseeching  fondness.  If  the  eyes  be  the  mirror  of  the  soul, 
what  a  soul  some  brute  animals  must  have !  Willard  turned 
his  head  from  their  chidnig,  appealing  gaze,  and  choked  down 
the  heart  that  was  springing  to  his  throat,  while,  in  a  louder 
and  still  more  commanding  tone,  he  exclaimed,  pointing  with 
his  finger  and  stamping  with  his  foot,  "  Back,  Rover !  Go 
home ! " 

The  dog  only  lowered  his  head  quite  to  the  dust,  and 
whined  more  piteously  than  before.  Perhaps  Willard  was 
afraid  to  trust  his  voice  again,  but  he  certainly  was  resolved 
on  making  the  animal  obey  him.  Taking  a  knife  from  his 
pocket,  he  proceeded,  not  very  deliberately,  to  a  tree  which 
drooped  its  heavy  branches  over  the  stone  wall  by  the  way- 
side. The  dog  did  not  move,  but  his  large,  pitiful  eyes  fol- 
lowed his  young  master  to  the  tree,  and  watched  him  with  a 
look  of  meek  sorrow  while  he  cut  a  limb  from  it  and  hastily 
trimmed  away  the  leaves.  But  —  as  he  returned  !  Willard 
was  within  a  yard  of  his  mutely  eloquent  friend,  when  the 
dog  seemed  of  a  sudden  to  comprehend  his  intent;  and  with 
a  sharp,  piercing  cry,  made  up  of  more  emotions  than  often 
swell  in  a  human  bosom  —  a  cry  of  intense,  heart-crushing 
anguish — he  leaped  the  fence  and  bounded  away.  Willard 
watched  him ;  not  with  tears  now,  for  there  was  something 
horrifying  in  what  he  had  done,  but  with  a  kind  of  awe- 
stricken  fear,  until  he  reached  the  little  bridge  which  had  been 
thrown  over  the  creek  in  the  pasture.  Here  the  dog  .for  tin-  !ir-t 
time  relaxed  his  speed,  turned  about,  and  stretching  his  neck, 
ominously,  in  the  direction  in  which  Willard  stood,  sent  forth 
a  long,  dismal  howl.  Howl  after  howl  —  howl  after  howl  — 
prolonged  —  terrible!  And  the  boy,  putting  his  fin 
his  ears,  ran  with  all  his  speed,  till  he  had  left  the  hill  between 
himself  and  his  home.  Pause  once  more,  and  bethink  thee, 
Willard  !  Perchance,  that  far-off  howl,  dying  now  in  the  dis- 
tance, is  warning  thee  of  coming  evil.  Pause,  and  think  ! 

As  Willard  hurried  on,  though  he  pussed   familiar  farm- 


WILLARD    LAWSON.  73 

houses,  bidding  adieu  to  the  scenes  of  boyhood,  perhaps  for- 
ever, a  change  gradually  came  over  him ;  for  the  clear,  fresh 
air  of  morning  brushed  his  cheek  and  cooled  his  forehead, 
giving  courage  to  his  heart ;  and  the  brisk  motion  quickened 
his  blood  and  took  some  of  the  pain  from  his  pulse-throbs. 
By  degrees  his  thoughts  passed  over  from  the  things  he  was 
leaving,  to  the  future ;  and  he  went  on,  whistling  "  A  life  on 
the  ocean  wave,"  and  carelessly  switching  the  thistles  and 
May-blossoms  with  the  stick  which  he  had  cut  for  Rover. 

CHAPTER    II. A   STRANGER. 

Willard  had  been  wandering  by  the  wharf  all  day,  passing 
from  one  vessel  to  another,  talking  with  seamen  and  laying 
plans  for  the  future  with  apparent  boldness ;  but,  spite  of  all 
this,  there  was  a  desolate  feeling  at  his  heart,  which  was  fast 
writing  itself  in  unboyish  characters  of  thought  upon  his  face. 
He  still  had  with  him  the  stick  which  he  brought  from  Law- 
son  farm ;  and  carried  suspended  from  it  a  small  bundle  of 
things  which  he  had  taken  the  forethought  to  tie  up  in  a 
pocket  handkerchief  on  the  morning  he  left  home.  This, 
with  a  very  scanty  purse,  was  all  he  had  on  earth ;  neither 
money,  nor  goods,  nor  friends.  But  he  possessed  that  which 
was  worse  for  him,  unguided  as  he  was,  than  his  wants  —  a 
bold,  impulsive  nature,  self-confidence  and  an  undoubting 
trust  in  others,  warmth  and  energy  and  gayety,  and  a  desire 
to  see  everything  and  test  everything ;  while,  just  at  this 
moment,  when  he  most  needed  it,  a  hinge  was  loosened  in  his 
strong  heart.  He  wandered  alone  to  a  back  street,  dark,  nar- 
row and  filthy,  for  he  was  taking  his  first  lesson  in  economy, 
and  seated  himself  on  a  bench  at  the  door  of  an  alehouse. 
Strange  beings  were  passing  by.  The  drunkard  and  the 
pauper,  the  undisguised  miserable  and  the  degraded  mirthful  in 
their  misery,  the  needy  beggar  and  the  beggar  by  profession, 
all  went  trooping  on ;  varied  only  now  and  then  by  a  face 
which  had  some  tokens  of  decency  in  it,  to  break  up  the  dis- 
gusting monotony.  After  awhile  men  began  to  gather  in  the 

VOL.  n.  7 


74  \V  1 1,  LARD    LAWSON. 

alehouse,  for  night  came  creeping  on.  And  suck  men  !  Wil- 
lard  had  never  dreamed  of  their  like  before.  There  were 
oaths  and  blasphemies  rind  brutal  jests  and  coarse  loud  peals 
of  laughter,  and  wrangling,  with  now  and  then  an  expostula- 
tion that  had  but  little  gentleness  about  it ;  and  as  Willard 
listened,  he  moved  uneasily  on  his  bench  and  looked  about 
him  with  some  auxin  v,  tor  his  prospects  for  the  night  were 
anything  but  a^reoabk1.  But  should  he  be  coward  enough  to 
change  his  quarters?  Willard  was  but  a  boy,  and  boys  have 
some  super-refined  notions  of  courage.  He  stretched  him- 
self upon  the  bench,  placing  his  little  bundle  under  his  head, 
lie  had  not  been  in  this  position  long  when  his  attention  was 
attracted  by  another  new-comer.  The  stranger  was  tall  and 
broad-shouldered  —  magnificently  made;  and  as  he  slept  into 
the  light  beyond  the  doorway,  Willard  raised  his  head  and 
looked  after  him  admiringly.  Was  it  some  brigand  chief, 
some  proud  and  powerful  sea-robber,  or  could  it  be  a  mere 
common  man  like  the  others  there,  smoking  and  drink- 
ing and  swearing?  He  could  not  be  a  good  man,  for  Wil- 
lard knew  that  this  was  no  place  for  the  good.  And  yet  he 
did  not  look  like  one  given  to  vicious  habits  or  evil  passions. 
His  rich,  wavy  hair  was  slightly  grizzled,  but  it  had  evidently 
been  touched  by  no  pencil  more  objectionable  than  Time  car- 
ries ;  his  complexion  was  pale  and  delicate,  quite  unlike  that 
of  a  sea-robber ;  and  his  soft  blue  eye  was  full  of  mildness 
and  love.  He  wore  a  stiff,  military-looking  coat,  buttoned 
closely  to  the  chin,  displaying  his  strong  muscular  propor- 
tions to  the  best  advantage,  and  carried  in  his  hand  a  heavy 
walking-stick,  headed  with  silver.  Willard  could  not  di*ro\vr 
in  what  the  stranger's  peculiarity  either  of  dress  or  manner 
consisted,  and  yet  there  was  a  peculiarity  which  attracted  the 
attention  of  all  the  bar-room  loungers.  He  spoke  a  word  or 
two  to  those  nearest  him  on  entering,  in  a  voice  of  singular 
richness  and  energy ;  and  then  drawing  back  a  little  from  the 
company,  placed  himself  upon  a  settle,  just  inside  the  door. 
He  was  evidently  a  stranger  to  the  rest  of  the  company  ns  to 
Willard ;  and  although  he  seemed  disinclined  to  join  in  their 


\V1LLAK1J    LAWSON.  75 

mirth,  his  eye  wandered  from  one  to  another  with  an  inter- 
ested kind  of  curiosity,  which  puzzled  our  young  friend  not  a 
little.  Was  there  any  affinity  existing  between  the  spirit  of 
the  stranger  and  a  scene  like  this  ?  There  was  a  nobleness  in 
his  countenance  and  a  majesty  in  his  air,  which  belonged  to 
no  common  person  —  an  arch-angel  fallen,  perhaps,  for,  if 
not  fallen,  why  should  he  be  there  among  the  vicious  and 
degraded?  Willard  watched  him  wonderingly,  and  as  he 
watched,  the  heads  within  began  to  dance  together,  the  night- 
lamps  joined  them,  and  finally  the  stars,  and  at  last  the  boy's 
dull  eyes  closed  entirely,  and  his  chin  rested  upon  his  shirt- 
collar.  Willard  was  tired  and  sleepy  that  night.  How  long 
he  gave  himself  up  to  the  dream-spirits  he  did  not  know;  but 
when  he  awoke,  a  voice  of  singular  kindness,  close  to  his  ear, 
remarked,  "  You  have  slept  soundly,  my  son." 

"  I  have  had  an  unusual  pillow,"  returned  Willard,  smiling, 
and  raising  his  head  from  the  shoulder  where  it  had  rested, 
"  I  trust  I  may  not  have  hugged  it  too  long  for  its  owner's 
convenience." 

"  That  is  its  owner's  care.  It  was  presented  unasked,  and 
might  have  been  reclaimed  at  any  moment.  But,  surely," 
added  the  stranger,  in  a  lower  tone,  "  you  are  not  in  the  habit 
of  resorting  to  such  a  place  as  this  ?  " 

"  I  might  return  the  compliment,"  answered  Willard,  laugh- 
ing, "  for  I  take  your  remark  as  something  of  a  compliment ; 
I  wondered  myself  to  sleep  upon  the  subject." 

"  And  what  did  you  decide  ?" 

"  Nothing." 

"  I  have  met  with  better  success  in  my  study.  You  are  a 
stranger." 

"  Not  quite  a  companion  for  men  like  those  ?  —  thank 
you." 

"  You  are  far  from  home,  for  the  first  time  ?  " 

"  The  first  time,"  returned  Willard,  with  a  sigh. 

"  You  have  not  always  been  happy  in  that  home  ?  " 

"  There  's  no  great  skill  in  that — who  has  ?" 

"  You  left  it  in  anger." 


76  WU.LAKU    LAW60N. 

"  Go  on,  wizard." 

"  You  know  you  have  taken  a  false  step,  and  feel  much 
regret;  but  you  are  too  proud  to  return." 

"  No,  no,  I  am  not  sorry  I  have  done  it.  I  am  not  sorry 
—  I  wouldn't  go  back  for  the  world  !" 

"  Rover  misses  you." 

Willard  started,  and  turned  slightly  pale. 

"  And  your  sister  Sophy " 

"  Ha !  I  believe  you  are  the  deuce,  man." 

"  Not  quite,  my  son ;  your  guess  has  even  less  courtesy  in 
it  than  mine,  when  I  dub  you  runaway." 

"  Who  and  what  are  you  that  you  should  know  so  much 
of  me — know  the  names  of  Sophy  and  Rover  ?" 

"  I  can  tell  you  more — you  have  a  desire  to  go  to  sea." 

"  Right,  but  you  must  have  dealings  with  his  black  ma- 
jesty." 

"  And  more."  Here  the  stranger  took  the  youth's  hand 
affectionately  in  his,  and  looked  into  his  face  with  solemn 
earnestness.  "  I  can  tell  you  more,  my  son ;  and  I  am  no 
magician  to  discover  it.  I  see  it  written  upon  your  forehead ; 
I  see  it  beaming  in  your  eye.  God  has  done  that  for  you 
which  may  make  you  among  men  like  yonder  star  among 
these  feeble  lamp-lights.  He  has  gifted  you  with  a  quick, 
powerful  intellect,  and  a  warm,  earnest  heart ;  but  that  power 
may  be  degraded  and  spend  itself  on  trifles ;  that  warmth  may 
be  perverted.  The  gallant  craft  you  are  about  to  launch  upon 
the  broad  ocean  of  the  world,  (pardon  me,  my  son,)  with  tender 
sails  and  warped  rudder,  is  a  thing  too  noble  to  subject  to 
such  a  risk.  If  you  were  an  older  sailor  you  would  make 
better  preparations  for  your  voyage.  No,  I  am  laying  no 
unusual  weakness  to  your  charge.  I  see  the  fire  in  your  eye  ; 
I  read  strength  of  purpose  on  that  bold  brow,  and  I  know  what 
a  strong  will  may  enable  you  to  do.  But  beware,  my  son ! 
as  noble  vessels  as  yours  have  been  wrecked  ;  as  strong  minds 
have  yielded  the  jewel  of  intellect  —  integrity,  unswerving 
principle ;  hearts  as  true  as  yours  have  blackened  under  the 
finger  of  pollution.  What  talisman  have  you  to  bear  you 


WILLARD    L.UVSON.  77 

safely  through?  There  was  a  time,  I  think  —  there  must 
have  been  a  time  when  you  prayed,  '  lead  us  not  into  tempta- 
tion ;'  and  now  you  are  voluntarily  walking  in  the  way  of  it. 
Do  I  not  tell  you  truth,  my  son  ? " 

"  What  am  I  to  do?"  asked  Willard,  with  a  quivering  hp. 

"  First  sit  down  and  tell  me  all  your  troubles  and  your 
plans." 

"  You  seem  to  be  pretty  well  informed  on  that  subject 
already." 

"  I  never  saw  you,  nor  heard  of  you  till  this  evening." 

"  How,  then,  do  you  know  so  much  about  me  ?  " 

"  Your  face  is  just  now  strangely  full  of  thought — you  look 
innocent — you  are  respectably  clad — you  carry  a  bundle  on 
your  walking-stick — you  are  in  a  place  given  up  to  the  vicious 
— you  go  to  sleep  unsuspectingly  where  any  but  a  stranger 
would  be  pretty  sure  of  having  his  pocket  picked — you  mur- 
mur names  in  your  sleep — your  speech  on  awaking  is  intelli- 
gent ;  am  I  a  wizard  ? " 

"  You  are  observing." 

"  I  came  here  to  observe ;  and  shall  be  but  too  happy  if  I 
cart  be  of  service  to  you." 

"  I  thank  you,  but  I  believe  my  path  is  pretty  plain  before 
me.  I  have  had  conversation  with  a  shipmaster  to-day,  and 
have  very  nearly  enlisted  as  a  sailor.  You  are  very  kind ; 
but,  notwithstanding  your  warning,  I  have  a  fancy  that  he 
who  cannot  preserve  purity  of  mind  and  morals  on  the  water, 
would  scarce  do  it  on  the  land." 

"  Very  true,  my  son.  Is  it  your  intention  to  go  out  as  a 
common  sailor?" 

"  Yes,  I  begin  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill.  I  have  no  friends 
to  help  me  to  a  better  berth." 

"  Your  associates  then  must  necessarily  be  men  who,  if  not 
vicious,  are  ignorant — you  will  have  no  change  of  companion- 
ship, nothing  to  elevate  your  thoughts  and  feelings — all  a 
dark,  degraded  level  about  you,  and  you  must  be  more  than 
human  not  to  sink  to  it.  You  are  young,  too,  and  do  not  yet 

VOL.  n.  7* 


78  W1LLARD    LAWSON. 

understand  your  capabilities,  because  you  have  not  tested 
them.  You  should  be  thoroughly  educated " 

"  I  do  not  like  study,  sir." 

"  Scarce  an  excuse  for  a  man,  my  son.  If  the  bird  should 
chance  not  to  like  the  air,  we  might  give  it  to  some  little  girl 
to  enslave,  or  if  the  fish  should  find  the  water  disagreeable, 
we  should  scarce  take  the  trouble  to  reason  with  it  —  let  the 
foolish  thing  die ;  but  the  immortal  mind  is  not  a  bird  or  a 
fish,  to  be  granted  its  whim  and  perish.  The  question  is  not 
what  you  fancy,  but  what  you  need.  Nothing  worth  having 
flies  to  you  and  alights  upon  your  hand ;  you  must  seek,  dig, 
dig,  dig,  and  the  '  hid  treasure,'  when  found,  will  be  worth  a 
thousand  worlds  to  you.  There  is  something  glorious,  too,  in 
the  labor.  You  commence  in  this  world  a  process  which  is 
to  be  carried  on  hereafter  under  the  eyes  of  angels — which 
is  to  make  the  bliss  of  eternity.  Think  of  the  great,  undying, 
God-like  mind  within  you,  lying  all  uncultivated,  its  capaci- 
ties undeveloped,  its  powers  unimproved,  its  affinity  to  the 
Deity  unrecognized — benefiting  no  one,  influencing  no  one, 
lost  like  rubbish  among  the  things  that  perish — a  chasm  in 
the  great  intellectual  unity,  a  monster  of  ingratitude  to  the 
God  who  endowed  it,  and  a  curse  to  itself.  You  cannot  walk 
through  the  world  as  the  fool  walks,  and  be  happy ;  for  there 
is  that  within  you  which  demands  your  life-long  care,  and  if 
you  neglect  it — listen  to  me,  my  son,  believe  me,  for  I  have 
seen  more  years  and  more  men  than  you  have,  and  I  have 
made  natures  like  yours  my  study — if  you  neglect  it,  you 
may  almost  as  well  turn  at  once  to  yonder  bar  and  find  your 
associates  there.  You  cannot  satisfy  the  yearning  of  the  cleat h- 
fess  spirit  for  the  food  it  covets,  with  husks  ;  it  will  not  bp  toyed 
with  ;  and  when,  starved,  enslaved,  trampled  on,  its  sharp  cry 
comes  to  your  ear,  you  will  drown  it  as — those  men  drown  it. 
Look  !  that  one  with  the  scar  across  the  brow,  and  the  fright- 
iul  scowl  had — has  no  common  mind — you  will  discover  it 
for  yourself  if  you  watch  his  actions  and  his  words.  On  the 
table  yonder,  degrading  himself  lower  than  any  mountebank, 


W1LLAKD    LAWSON.  79 

is  one  made  to  love  beauty  and  harmony — a  poet  by  nature, 
a  harlequin  by  prostitution.'' 

"  You  seem  to  know  them  well,"  remarked  Willard,  throw- 
ing a  scrutinizing  glance  on  his  monitor. 

"  As  I  know  you ;  I  have  never  met  them  before." 

"  I  had  been  looking  at  them  before  you  came  in,  and  I 
thought  them  either  fools  or  madmen ;  there  seems  to  be  no 
reason  either  in  their  actions  or  words." 

"  They  are  both ;  but  not  half  as  mad  as  you  are  now  to  run 
violently  into  the  same  danger." 

Willard  drew  himself  up.  "  I  have  reason  to  be  highly 
flattered,  sir,  with  your  opinion  of  my  strength  of  character 
and  purity  of  principle." 

The  stranger  laid  his  hand  soothingly  on  the  shoulders  of 
the  half-angry  youth,  which  lowered  beneath  its  magnetic 
touch,  until  he  stood  smiling  beside  him  as  before.  "  Have 
you  more  than  human  strength,  my  son  ?  There  is  an  angel 
hovering  over  your  heart  I  know ;  but  is  there  one  standing  at 
its  door  with  a  flaming  sword  to  keep  out  evil  ?  Is  it  chained 
fast  that  it  cannot  go  into  error  ?  Are  you  stronger  than  the 
Son  of  the  Morning,  and  purer  than  he,  that  you  cannot  fall  ? 
Does  none  of  the  original  sin  of  our  ruined  natures  cleave  to 
you,  and  have  you  added  nothing  thereto  ?  A  Redeemer  died 
for  you ;  but  did  he  make  it  impossible  for  you  to  sin  ?  or  was 
it  not  this  same  Holy  One  who  said,  '  Watch  and  pray,  lest 
you  enter  into  temptation  ?'  Think  of  the  indignant  exclama- 
tion of  one  as  pure-hearted  and  unsuspecting  as  you  are  : 
'  What !  dost  thou  think  thy  servant  a  dog  that  he  should  do 
this  great  thing  ? '  And  what  things  did  he  not  do  ?  What 
crime  too  black  for  him  afterwards  ?  There  was  a  time,  I 
doubt  not,  when  yonder  harlequin  would  have  been  indignant 
had  his  present  degradation  but  been  hinted  at.  But  listen  to 
him  now.  That  was  a  beautiful  sentiment  to  drop  from  such 
'ips — but  how  distorted — and  finished  with  an  oath — hear 
him.  There  .was  a  time  when  he  was  innocent  and  self-con- 
fident, and  I  am  sure  not  many  years  ago.  Wait  me  here 
while  I  recall  those  days.  If  I  can  but  lay  my  finger  on  the 


80  WILLARD   LAWSON. 

right  chord,  I  may  produce  a  vibration  which  will  call  up 
some  well-nigh  forgotten  strain  of  better  days,  and  do  him 
good." 

The  stranger  stepped  to  the  table,  where  a  light-haired,  fair- 
faced,  lithe  young  man  was  dancing  and  singing  songs,  and 
performing  various  feats  of  buffoonery  for  the  amusement  of 
the  boisterous  company  about  him." 

"  Henry  Crayton,  I  believe  ! " 

"  Ah  !  *  what 's  in  a  name  ? '  «  Avoid  ye  !  get  thee  behind 
me  ! '  '  Do  you  squinny  at  me  ? ' 

'  When  the  wine-cup  is  smiling  before  us, 
And  we  pledge  round  to  hearts  that  are  true,  boys,  true, 
Remember  your  part 's  to  encore  us  ; 
So  here 's  for  a  hulabuloo  —  loo,  loo,  loo, 
So  here 's  for  —  here 's  for  — ' 

Where  are  your  voices,  boys  ?  Oh,  there  is  the  big  shadow 
yet — out  with  it,  man ! " 

"  I  have  a  message  for  you." 

"  Then  deliver  thyself,  an'  thou  art  not  breathless  with  the 
weighty  matter,  my  little  foot-page.  Speak  on ;  these  are  all 
our  right  loyal  subjects,  and  we  have  no  secrets  from  their 
ears." 

"  I  had  better  wait  your  leisure,"  replied  the  stranger,  turn- 
ing away. 

"  Leisure  !  here  's  for  you,  then.  I  come  —  I  come  ! "  and, 
plunging  from  the  table,  young  Crayton  alighted  on  his  hands, 
turned  a  somerset,  cleared  himself  of  the  applauding  crowd, 
and  joined  the  tall  stranger  on  the  portico. 

"  Perhaps  I  should  apologize  for  interrupting  your  agreeable 
amusement,"  Willard  heard  his  new  friend  remark. 

"  Agreeable !  Well,  there  is  laughing  and  the  hours  go 
by — yes,  it  is  agreeable.  You  had  an  errand." 

"  My  message  was  a  petition." 

"  You  had  better  have  presented  it  then  while  I  was  on  mv 
throne.  Ha,  ha  ! " 

"  It  is  a  solemn  one." 


WILLAKIJ    LAWSON.  81 

"  Well,  speak,  though  I  have  no  liking  for  solemn  things," 
answered  the  half-sobered  youth, 

1  Let 's  laugh  and  be  merry, 
For  old  Charon's  ferry, 
It ' 

I  beg  your  pardon,  speak  on." 

"  An  angel  once  dwelt  in  your  heart,  and  he  would  fain 
come  back  again.  Innocence  is  the  lost  one's  name  —  oh, 
take  her  to  your  bosom,  and  with  her  she  will  bring  a  sister 
—  Peace."  Willard  did  not  hear  the  reply,  but  he  thought  it 
was  a  scoff,  and  he  wondered  if  it  were  possible  for  him  ever 
to  become  so  degraded.  The  two  men  still  pursued  their 
walk  up  and  down  the  portico,  their  voices  gradually  growing 
lower  and  more  earnest,  till  not  a  single  word  could  be  dis- 
tinguished. At  last  they  parted.  The  younger  walked  away 
in  the  darkness,  and  the  stranger  monitor  returned  to  the 
waiting  Willard. 

"  Poor  fellow !  He  is  very  miserable,  for  he  is  as  sensitive 
concerning  his  degradation  as  though  it  were  not  his  own 
work.  He  was  not  sorry  to  find  sympathy  and  encourage- 
ment, and  I  have  left  him  with  an  arrow  in  his  heart  which 
he  may  turn  to  balm.  Heaven  help  him !  He  has  promised 
to  come  to  me  in  the  morning  for  employment.  If  he  should, 
I  will  do  the  best  I  can  for  him,  and  I  think  some  friends  that 
I  have  in  town  would  second  my  endeavors." 

"  Do  you  believe  that  he  will  keep  his  promise  ?  " 

"  It  is  doubtful.  He  might  reform,  but  it  is  hard  to  retread 
steps  of  darkness  and  bitterness ;  better  commence  aright,  my 
son." 

Willard  wished  himself  at  home  again ,  and  almost  thought 
that  he  would  submit  to  his  father's  control,  (tyranny  he  named 
it,)  in  order  to  avoid  the  fearful  hazard  of  his  present  position. 

"  I  would  commence  aright,"  he  began,  falteringly,  "  I  would 
commence  aright — but — I  cannot  go  back  to  Lawson  farm. 
There  is  no  one  to  guide  me  here,  no  one  to  advise  me ;  what 
shall  I  do?" 


O2  WILLARD    LAWSON. 

"  And  why  not  go  back,  my  son  ? " 

"  I  am  not  happy  there  —  I  cannot  be.  If  there  were  any 
one  to  talk  to  me  as  you  do,  to  awaken  me  to  a  consciousness 
of  my  own  powers,  and  teach  me  to  cultivate  and  improve 
them,  I  might  find  pleasure  in  that ;  but  I  shall  go  away  and 
forget  what  you  have  told  me,  and  I  cannot  do  right  when  I 
am  unhappy.  No,  I  never  will  go  back  to  Lawson  farm." 

"  Go  with  me  then,  will  you  not?" 

"Where?" 

"To — to  complete  your  education,  to  fit  yourself  for  use- 
fulness in  the  sphere  which  to-day  you  may  choose ;  to-mor- 
row will  be  lost  to  you.  Go  with  me,  my  son,  and  you  never 
will  regret  this  most  important  decision  of  your  life." 

"  How  can  I  go  ?  I  am  but  one  remove  from  beggary, 
though  I  decline  the  profession,  in  favor  of  the  '  bounding  bil- 
low.' Here  is  my  wardrobe  in  this  pocket-handkerchief,  and 
here  my  purse — just  eighty-nine  cents  in  it — a  weighty  cap- 
ital with  my  expectations !  I  have  nothing  else  in  the  wide 
world." 

"  You  have  a  strong  hand  and  a  strong  intellect.  Improve 
well  what  you  have,  and  I  will  make  the  rest  easy  for  you." 

"  Who  then  are  you  ? " 

The  stranger  pulled  a  card  from  his  pocket  and  put  it  in 
the  hand  of  the  youth,  who  stepped  nearer  the  light  to  read  it. 
In  a  moment  he  returned,  his  eye  moist  and  his  voice  tremu- 
lous. 

"  I  have  heard  of  you.  You  have  been  very  kind  to  reason 
so  with  my  waywardness,  and  I  commit  myself,  without  ques- 
tion, to  your  guidance;  for  your  voice  has  reached  to  my 
inmost  spirit,  and  roused  aspirations  which  might  have  slum- 
bered forever." 

"  You  will  go  with  me,  then?" 

"  I  will.  I  dare  not  refuse.  It  almost  seems  to  me  that 
you  have  been  sent  here,  in  this  hour  of  danger,  by  my  dead 
mother." 

"  Perhaps ;  the  spirits  that  have  gone  home  before  do  watch 
over  us,  my  son." 


WILLARD     LAWSON.  83 

CHAPTER    IU. THE    ORATOR. 

AN  immense  concourse  of  the  proudest  intellects  our  state 

can  boast,  had  assembled  at .     There  was  a  hush  like 

the  pulseless  silence  of  the  tomb;  for  the  inspiration  of  a 
mighty  spirit  had  passed  over  them ;  and  each  rapt  listener 
suspended  his  breathing,  lest  even  that  should  drown  some 
tone  replete  with  the  eloquence  of  the  mighty  indwelling 
spirit.  The  voice  of  the  speaker  was  one  well  known  in  the 
council-hall,  one  to  which  senators  had  listened  with  rever- 
ence, one  which  wisdom  honored  and  philanthropy  had  cause 
to  bless.  And  he  now  spoke  eloquently  and  feelingly  upon  a 
subject,  which  it  was  evident  interested  him  beyond  measure 
—  the  dispersion  of  the  clouds  from  the  intellectual  horizon 
of  the  human  race ;  and  the  full,  steady  light,  flooding  every- 
thing in  its  way,  which  was  spreading  itself  from  zenith  to 
nadir.  He  spoke  of  the  might  of  mind  even  in  its  clay  prison ; 
of  the  man  of  the  wise  thought  beside  the  man  of  the  strong 
arm ;  of  the  little  voice  which  comes  up  from  the  lone  phi- 
losopher's cell  to  shake  the  broad  earth  with  its  thunders ;  and 
of  the  foolish  one,  who  goes  out  among  his  fellows,  never 
knowing  nor  making  it  known  that  he  carries  more  than  the 
wealth  of  an  empire  in  his  bosom.  He  went  back  to  the 
earth's  midnight,  and  plunged  into  the  closet  of  the  alchymist 
and  the  cell  of  the  monk,  where  genius  wrestled  with  supersti- 
tion, in  the  dense  darkness,  and  where  knowledge  long  hid 
her  mourning  head  ;  and  he  brought  up  from  each  a  libation 
to  pour  upon  the  altar  of  intellectual  democracy.  He  pointed 
to  the  lone  stars  that  formerly  glittered,  wonders  to  gaze  at, 
in  the  wide  heaven  of  literary  fame ;  and  then  he  suddenly 
unrolled  a  new  firmament,  all  spangled  over  with  orbs  full  of 
brilliancy  and  beauty,  but  so  lost  in  the  universal  light  as  to 
be  scarce  discoverable.  And  with  what  heart-felt  eloquence 
he  hailed  the  glorious  morning !  Ah !  he  must  have  been 
standing  beneath  a  sun  of  his  own,  to  be  so  enraptured  with 
the  spirit-warming  effulgence ;  for  there  are  those  who  even 
now  see  nothing  but  feeble  rush-lights,  glimmering  in  the 


84  W1LLARD    LAWSON. 

darkness ;  who  long  for  the  olden  time,  when  but  one  star 
blazed  aloft  to  light  a  century,  and  after  its  exit  the  world 
slumbered  on,  till  another  came,  darting  its  wild  coruscations 
athwart  the  gloom  with  startling  fitfulness.  He  was  not  a 
mere  orator,  he  was  an  artist,  a  pygmalion,  and  his  creations 
breathed  —  glowed — burned ;  his  Promethean  hand  had  stolen 
the  sacred  fire,  and  he  scattered  it  with  a  wild  profusion,  which 
left  a  spark  on  every  heart — not  to  kindle  passion,  but  to 
burn  away  the  dross,  and  leave  the  godlike  spirit  unalloyed, 
in  unshackled  freedom.  He  ceased,  and  that  vast  concourse 
arose  and  walked  away  in  subdued  silence.  Each  mind, 
however  deeply  buried  in  frivolities,  flung  open  its  portals  to 
thought,  and  thought  is  the  angel  which,  once  admitted,  rec- 
tifies and  renovates  the  whole  inner  being. 

Among  those  who  listened  to  the  thrilling  eloquence  of  the 
gifted  orator  was  a  noble-browed,  mild-eyed  old  man,  with 
locks  of  snow,  and  a  face  whose  expression  combined  benevo- 
lence with  native  dignity.  His  broad  chest  heaved  with  emo- 
tion while  he  listened  ;  and,  when  the  eyes  of  others  kindled 
with  enthusiasm,  his  closed  over  the  warm  tears  which 
gushed  up  from  a  fountain  stirred  in  his  bosom  only ;  for  he 
knew  that  from  a  little  seed  which  he  once  held  between  his 
own  fingers,  sprang  all  those  sentiments  so  fraught  with  life, 
so  redolent  with  wisdom  and  purity.  In  a  few  minutes  they 
had  grasped  hands — the  noble  old  man,  and  the  son  of  his 
better  nature.  They  met  not  with  outward  caressings,  but 
with  a  close  clasping  of  the  spirit  which  is  sometimes  granted 
on  this  side  of  bliss,  and  a  more  than  womanly  gush  of  ten- 
derness quivering  in  either  voice ;  for  it  4s  a  gross  wisdom 
which  claims  not  love  for  its  twin. 

Go  on,  Willard  Lawson  !  gather  thy  jewels  about  thee,  as 
thou  art  gathering  them  now ;  make  thine  own  setting  one  of 
unsurpassed  glory  ;  for  soon  a  brow  thou  lovest  will  turn  from 
earth  to  be  adorned  in  heaven;  and  on  that  noble  brow  the 
jewel  of  thine  own  bright  spirit  will  glitter. 


85 


A  CASE  OF  LUNACY  NOT  UNCOMMON. 

"  WHERE  AWAY,  Jem?" 

"  Up  country." 

"  Aha  !     What 's  in  the  wind  ?  " 

"  A  raise." 

"As  how?" 

"Honor  bright?" 

"  Honor  bright." 

"Fact  is,  Tom,  the  New  Yorkers  are  purse-proud  —  no 
money  to  be  had  for  love,  even.  All  wrong  —  money  buys 
love,  why  not  love  money  ?  A'n't  I  a  philosopher,  Tom  ?  " 

"  Very  good  for  a  beginning." 

"  Well,  I  must  practise  a  little,  you  see  —  nothing  like 
practice  ;  and  no  knowing  how  soon  I  may  be  drawn  out. 
Country  belles,  I've  heard  say,  are  the  deuce-and-all  at  phi- 
losophy." 

"  And  who  is  to  have  the  honor  of  buying  the  ninety-ninth 
part  of  some  hitherto  hidden  corner  of  Jem  Fletcher's  heart, 
(all  there  is  left,)  and  what's  the  bid?"  ' 

"  No  funning,  Tom ;  I  'm  in  sober  earnest  this  time.  That 
is,  what  with  the  billet-doux  from  trades-people,  and  the  lack 
of  them  from  heiresses,  I  am  getting  feeble ,  very.  Pulse  low, 
(alias  purse,)  no  rest,  (worried  by  bills  a  mile  long  every  day,) 
can't  sleep  o'  nights,  (for  want  of  a  bed,)  appetite  shockingly 
irregular,  (ravenous  when  somebody  else  foots  the  bill,)  — 
tell  ye  what  it  is,  Tom,  I'm  a  case,  that's  clear.  Nothing 
will  do  but  change  of  scene  —  country  air,  and  country  exer- 
cise —  the  doctors  would  recommend  it,  I  know.  If  I  don't 
get  better,  they'll  smother  me  with  duns  —  I  shall  be  regu- 
larly Burked  —  chopped  into  minced  meat  for  the  benefit  of 
Shears  &  Co.  Sad,  is  n't  it  ?" 

"  Very.     Poor  Jem  Fletcher ! " 

VOL.  n.  8 


86  A    CASE    OF    LUNACY    NOT    UNCOMMON. 

"  Tho'  the  soul  of  ye  would  melt  a  little.  But  don't  quite 
break  your  heart ;  I  shall  take  a  dose  of  the  country  and  come 
out  new.  The  worst  of  it  is,  I  must  serve  an  apprenticeship, 
and  my  Laban  will  outdo  his  prototype ;  he  will  make  me 
spin  every  thought  that  is  in  me  into  gold  threads  to  match  the 
yellow-boys  in  his  eel-skin  purse." 

"  That  will  be  oppressive." 

"  So  it  will,  but  I  must  submit." 

"  And  for  lack  of  the  gold,  substitute  the  labor  of  gilding, 
eh?" 

"  Ah  !  you  understand,  Tom ;  you  know  all  about  it.  A 
fortune  in  your  eye,  my  boy  ! " 

"  Something  in  that  way,  you  know." 

"  Ah,  yes !  'waiting  for  dead  men's  shoes;'  but  take  my 
word  for  it,  Tom,  there 's  nothing  like  this  plan  o'  mine. 
Catch  a  bird  with  a  piece  of  money  in  her  mouth,  and  you 
have  birdie  and  all." 

"  Ay,  catch  the  bird." 

"Oh!  that's  nothing.  She's  as  good  as  caught,  now. 
I've  got  a  fortieth  cousin  up  there  in  the  woods,  (Alderbrook 
they  call  the  settlement,)  and  he 's  a  great  man  among  them 
— justice  of  the  peace,  town  clerk,  or  something  or  other. 
Well,  I  believe  he  has  an  inkling  of  the  state  of  my  affairs  ; 
and  having  done  pretty  well  in  the  matrimonial-money- 
making  line  himself,  he  just  takes  it  upon  himself  to  advise 
me.  Let  me  see  —  I  have  a  mem.  somewhere.  Deacon  — 
Deacon  —  Palmer,  (I  believe  it  is,)  —  a  hundred  thousand  — 
one  pretty  daughter,  very  pretty,  and  sole  heiress  —  about 
sixteen,  bright  eyes,  dark  hair,  given  to  curling  —  tall  —  hands 
and  feet  —  (dang  it !  not  a  word  about  them  !  all  right,  though, 
I  dare  say,)  —  loves  to  queen  it  —  a  little  blue,  and  wilful  as 
Zantippe  !  What  say  to  that,  eh  !  Tom  ?" 

"  No  pulling  hair,  I  hope." 

"  Do  you  think  I  had  better  go  to  the  barber,  Tom,  by  way 
of  a  preventive  ?  " 

"  Time  enough.     You  told  of  an  apprenticeship." 

«'  Oh,  ah  !  that's  the  bitter  pill,  the  drop  too  much,  the  great 


A  CASE  OF  LUNACY  NOT  UNCOMMON.  87 

sacrifice  that's  to  make  a  martyr  of  me,  Tom.  It  seems  they 
have  got  an  academy  of  learning  up  there.  (When  I  am 
president,  I'll  have  all  such  ruinous  institutions  levelled.) 
James  Fletcher,  A.  B.,  your  servant,  sir,  was  graduated  at  old 
Harvard,  and  he  purposes  assuming  the  duties  and  responsi- 
bilities of  principal  of  that  most  excellent  institution  —  thp 
academy  at  Alderbrook,  I  mean." 

"  Capital,  Jem  !  But  no  !  Why  not  dash  out,  play  high, 
and  take  the  fortress  by  glitter?  No  danger  of  an  indictment 
for  swindling." 

"  There 's  a  papa  in  the  way,  with  an  eye  like  a  hawk. 
No ;  sober  and  intellectual  is  my  cue  —  not  moneyed,  but 
evidently  '  a  rising  young  man.'  Dang  it !  won't  I  rise  ?" 

"  If  you  can.  But  see  !  the  steamer  is  ready  for  putting 
off.  Success  to  ye,  Jem  —  Good-by.v 

"  Good-by.  Better  try  my  prescription,  eh  ?  Think  on 't 
—  do!" 

Oh  !  what  a  sensation  there  was  in  our  village,  when  it 
was  reported  that  James  Fletcher,  Esq.,  of  New  York  city,  a 
young  gentleman  of  very  brilliant  parts,  and  highly-finished 
education,  was  coming  to  take  charge  of  our  academy ! 
There  was  much  sympathy  for  him,  too ;  for  it  was  rumored 
that  the  exigences  of  the  times  had  deprived  him  of  a  very 
fine  fortune  ;  and,  moreover,  that  he  came  to  us  for  the  sake 
of  giving  his  mind  the  opportunity  to  recover  its  usual  tone 
and  vigor,  after  having  been  nearly  shattered  by  adversity. 
Mr.  Fletcher  arrived  late  of  a  Saturday  evening ;  but  in  the 
ten  minutes  that  elapsed  before  he  disappeared  in  one  of  the 
upper  chambers  of  the  "  Sheaf  and  Sickle,"  he  had  been  seen 
by  half  the  men  of  the  village.  The  next  morning  there  was 
a  great  rush  to  church,  which  must  have  been  anticipated  by 
the  parson ;  for  the  elder  part  of  the  congregation  did  not  fail 
to  observe  that  he  had  taken  unwonted  pains  with  his  dis- 
course. Adeline  Palmer  called  at  our  door,  and,  as  we 
walked  to  church  together,  I  had  a  full  description  of  Mr. 
Fletcher  —  eyes,  hair,  complexion,  bearing,  character,  and 
even  feelings.  The  picture  was  rather  "  taking,"  I  must 


88          A  CASE  OF  LUNACY  NOT  UNCOMMON. 

own ;  but  my  muslin  and  straw  were  "  as  good  as  new, 
then ;  so  I  only  readjusted  the  precious  morsel  of  paste  glit- 
tering in  my  breast-knot,  and  carried  my  parasol  as  daintily 
as  possible.  But  it  was  of  no  use.  Ada  Palmer  was  the 
belle  of  Alderbrook ;  and,  though  it  is  impossible,  in  any  case, 
to  resist  the  desire  to  look  one's  prettiest*  the  vainest  of  us 
never  dreamed  of  being  seen  when  beside  her.  Worse  still,  I 
was  informed  that  Mr.  Fletcher  was  particularly  anxious  to 
board  at  Deacon  Palmer's,  for  the  reason  that  his  love  of 
retirement  and  quiet  might  be  better  gratified  there  than  at 
any  other  house  in  the  village. 

"  And  will  he  ?"  I  inquired,  with  quite  enough  interest. 

"  If  we  can  get  papa  to  consent." 

"  To  think  of  your  having  a  boarder  ! " 

"  You  pity  us,  I  dare  say,  Fan,"  whispered  Ada,  with  a 
very  roguish  twinkle  of  the  eye,  and  a  knowing  look  about  the 
corners  of  the  mouth,  that  was  particularly  provoking. 

"  Rather  impertinent,  Miss  Deacon's  daughter,"  thought  I ; 
"  I  shall  treasure  that  up  to  measure  back  to  you  one  of  these 
days ;"  but  there  was  no  chance  to  reply,  for  we  had  entered 
the  church  porch  ;  and  so,  with  a  mutual  smile,  and  a  nod  of 
good-natured  defiance,  we  parted.  I  soon  discovered  Mr. 
Fletcher,  for  his  was  the  only  strange  face  there ;  and  he 
evidently  soon  discovered  Ada  Palmer.  Oh !  Ada  icas  a  lit- 
tle queen,  and  she  never  looked  so  beautiful  as  on  that  day. 
It  was  impossible  not  to  concede  to  her  her  winnings ;  and 
when,  in  a  fortnight  after,  Mr.  Fletcher  was  reckoned  unfail- 
ingly among  them,  I  do  not  believe  there  was  a  belle  in  the 
whole  village  but  thought  it  was  her  due,  and  yielded  the 
conquest  to  her  with  a  good  grace.  But  we  did  have  rare 
times,  making  Ada  blush,  and  (did  you  ever  observe  that 
awkward  right-angle  which  bashful  consciousness  puts  in  the 
corner  where  the  two  lips  meet  ?)  make  square  mouths.  Rare 
times  had  we ;  and  it  was  as  good  revenge  as  need  be. 

But  poor  Jem  Fletcher  !  he  was  right  when  he  anticipated 
a  severe  apprenticeship,  for  the  deacon  was  "  a  marvel  of  a 
good  man."  Deacon  Palmer's  right  hand,  holding  his  purse 


A    CASE    OP    LUX  AC  Y    NOT    UNCOMMON.  ti\) 

within  it,  was  given  to  every  good  enterprise,  whether  for  the 
advancement  of  religion  and  morality,  or  intended  to  promote 
the  secondary  interests  of  the  village  which  acknowledged  him 
its  head.  So  poor  Jem  was  not  only  obliged  to  attend  church 
three  times  every  Sabbath,  and  lectures  of  various  kinds  dur- 
ing the  week,  but  he  must  needs  listen,  with  at  least  pretended 
interest,  to  a  thousand  plans  for  ameliorating  the  condition  of 
the  human  race ;  from  which  weighty  matters,  he  hoped,  as 
he  listened,  at  some  future  day  to  relieve  his  intended  father- 
in-law,  by  taking  the  helm  into  his  own  hand.  The  more 
Jem  saw  of  the  old  gentleman's  generosity,  the  more  sanguine 
became  his  hopes ;  and  bright  was  the  picture  his  fancy 
painted,  of  the  time  when  good  Deacon  Palmer  would  no 
longer  be  obliged  to  look  after  wealth  which  he  did  not  know 
how  to  use.  But  Jem's  hardest  apprenticeship  was  not  to 
Laban — it  was  to^ Rachel  herself.  Oh  !  such  a  sprite  as  was 
Ada  Palmer !  Proud  as  Juno,  and  mischievous  as  a  whole 
troop  of  those  small  people  they  call  fairies,  headed  by  bright 
Titania's  own  jester.  An 

"  Airy,  fairy  Lilian, 
Flitting,  fairy  Lilian" 

was  she,  with  the  same  "  crimson-threaded  lips,"  and  the  "  silver 
trebled  laughter"  on  them ;  but  as  dignified  as  a  lady  duchess, 
when  she  chose.  Oh  !  there  was  no  bringing  Ada  to  terms 
till  she  was  ready  to  come  ;  and  sometimes  I  used  to  doubt 
whether  Jem  Fletcher,  though  he  trained  his  eyes,  and  trained 
his  tongue,  and  tuned  his  voice  to  the  tone  of  a  harp  with  a 
die-away  air  on  its  strings,  would  be  able  to  accomplish  it. 
Ada  was  un-read-able,  even  by  us.  Jem,  however,  hoped  on, 
and  with  good  reason,  for  it  was  evident  that  he  had  the  right 
ear  of  both  parents. 

There  was  to  be  a  meeting  of  the  "  Alderbrook  Young 
Ladies'  Temperance  Society,"  and  Mr.  Fletcher  was  unani- 
mously declared  "  the  very  one  "  to  deliver  a  fitting  lecture  on 
the  occasion.  Jem  Fletcher  lecture  on  temperance  !  But  no 
matter;  he  had  embarked,  and  must  push  forward  at  all 

VOL.  II.  8* 


90  A    CASE    OF    LUMACY    MOT    UNCOMMON. 

hazards.  Besides,  what  better  opportunity  could  a  lover  wish 
for  the  display  of  his  eloquence  ?  What  delicate  compliments 
might  he  pay  to  one  under  cover  of  the  whole  !  How  charm- 
ingly would  he  angelize  all  the  fair  teens  at  Alderbrook,  while 
Ada  would  be  thinking  within  herself,  "  if  he  holds  all  of  us 
in  such  high  estimation,  what  would  his  idolatry  be  when 
concentrated  ?  "  Mr.  Fletcher  delighted  the  ladies  by  consent- 
ing to  address  them ;  but,  in  the  mean  time,  he  begged  a  week's 
delay,  as  he  would  not  presume  to  rise  before  such  an  assem- 
bly of  wit,  and  beauty,  and  talent,  without  due  preparation. 
The  delay  was  granted,  and  poor  Jem  Fletcher  sat  down 
determinedly  and  perseveringly  to  his  severe  task.  Such 
havoc  as  was  made  among  the  goose  quills  and  foolscap  ! 
Jem's  organ  of  destructiveness  had  never  accomplished  so 
much  since  the  days  of  his  babyhood,  when  newspapers  had 
been  given  him  as  playthings.  But  he  succeeded.  Even  his 
own  fastidious  taste  was  fully  satisfied.  And  what  might  not 
be  expected  of  those  bright  beings  on  the  look-out  for  beauties  ? 
Jem  was  in  raptures.  He  read,  and  re-read  his  address ;  and 
each  time  it  grew  more  strikingly  brilliant,  more  witty,  more 
sweetly  sentimental,  more  gracefully  insinuating — in  short, 
more  decidedly  the  precise  thing  to  bait  the  hook  dropped 
through  a  lady's  ear  into  her  heart.  We  all  expected  won- 
ders of  Mr.  Fletcher ;  and  curiosity,  pushed  back  like  a  bois- 
terous beggar  till  the  latest  moment,  was  ready  for  a  rush. 

"  Ada,  go  up  to  Mr.  Fletcher's  room  and  get  the  newspaper," 
said  the  deacon,  after  the  young  lady  had  donned  bonnet  and 
shawl  to  go  to  the  lecture. 

Ada  seized  my  hand.  "  Come  with  me,  Fan  ;  Mr.  Fletcher 
is  down  taking  tea  with  mamma.  He  stayed  out  late  to-night 
— conning  his  speech,  I  dare  say,"  she  added,  in  a  whisper. 

The  deacon  rang  for  lights,  and  away  went  Ada  and  I  for 
the  newspaper.  Mr.  Fletcher's  hat,  with  his  gloves  beside  it, 
was  upon  the  table  ;  and  upon  a  folded  handkerchief,  like  the 
driven  snow  in  whiteness,  lay  a  little  manuscript  book. 

"  Look  !  the  lecture,  Fanny ! "  said  Ada,  taking  one  cor- 
ner between  the  tips  of  her  fingers,  and  elevating  it  above 


A  CASE  OF  LUNACY  NOT  UNCOMMON.          91 

her  head.  "  Now  what  would  you  give  to  see  the  inside 
of  it?" 

"  A  bound  to  the  top  of  the  staircase ;  I  never  could  bear 
to  read  a  manuscript.  But  what  a  very  nice  man  this  Mr. 
Fletcher  of  yours  must  be  !  See  how  carefully  that  bit  of 
blue  riband  is  knotted." 

"  The  very  same  that  he  stole  from  my  work-basket  this 
morning  !  Saucy,  is  n't  it  ?  I  have  half  a  mind  to  punish 
that  impudence.  Besides,  (between  our  two  selves,  Fan,) 
this  very  correct  Mr.  Fletcher  is  an  arrant  hypocrite — I  see 
it  in  his  eyes  and  hear  it  in  his  voice.  He  would  be  far  more 
at  home,  I  dare  say,  singing — 

'  Blame  not  the  bowl  —  the  fruitful  bowl,1 

than  saying  pretty  things  for  the  edification  of  us  cold-water- 
ites.  Let 's  punish  his  knavery.  Here,  come  to  the  window 
while  I  untie  this  knot." 

Ada  Palmer's  fingers  shook  as  though  shocked  at  their  own 
naughty  doings,  while  she  loosened  the  blue  riband ;  and  then 
she  slipped  the  inner  sheet  from  it,  and  slid  it  down  behind 
the  sofa. 

"  Now,  if  I  only  had  some  queer  thing  to  substitute.  Look ! 
there 's  a  sheet  of  note-paper  on  the  table  !  He  has  just  writ- 
ten down  a  page,  and  the  ink  is  hardly  dry  on  it.  Bring  it, 
Fanny — it  is  just  the  size  of  this — some  love-note,  I  dare 
say  ;  and  we  shall  get  a  blush  from  him,  at  any  rate,  Avhen  he 
opens  to  it.  Think  of  making  him  blush  in  public  !  but  we 
must  be  very  demure — it  would  not  do  for  us  to  smile  even, 
or  we  should  be  detected." 

By  the  time  Ada  had  finished  her  caution,  the  sheet  of 
note-paper  was  fastened  snugly  in  the  middle,  and  the  book 
returned  to  its  resting-place  on  the  handkerchief. 

A  more  mellow,  rich-toned  voice,  than  Jem  Fletcher's,  I 
never  heard ;  and,  on  that  evening,  it  was  modulated  to  its 
utmost  capacity  for  melody-  I  had  entirely  forgotten  Ada's 
mischievous  prank,  and  so  had  she,  I  doubt  not,  before  he  had 
turned  over  three  leaves.  The  sentiments,  too,  and  the  happy 


92  A    CASE    OF    LUNACY    NOT    UNCOMMON. 

mode  of  adorning  them  !  Oh  !  Jem  Fletcher  deserved  success 
for  his  industry,  if  not  for  his  honesty  !  Suddenly,  while 
Fletcher's  tongue  was  thrilling  beneath  a  whole  tide  of  elo- 
quence, and  hearts  were  beating,  and  eyes  flashing  before  him, 
he  made  an  abrupt  pause.  Placing  his  right  hand  upon  the 
page,  he  raised  the  other  to  his  eyes  hastily,  as  though  brush- 
ing away  some  intruding  vision  —  but  no,  it  was  there  yet. 
Jem  tried  his  handkerchief,  but  it  did  no  good.  Something 
had  evidently  planted  itself  before  him  that  he  did  not  wish 
to  see.  He  turned  over  leaf  after  leaf  confusedly,  and  back 
again,  while  the  red  blood  seemed  ready  to  burst  from  his 
forehead,  and  we  could  almost  fancy  that  we  saw  his  hair 
raising  itself  in  consternation  above. 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  embarrass  him  so  much,"  whispered 
Ada  in  my  ear. 

At  that  moment,  Fletcher's  eye  fell  upon  us,  and  such  an 
eye  !  Mortification,  distress,  anger — everything  painful  was 
there  ;  and  no  doubt  our  blazing  faces,  with  the  attempt  at  a 
smile,  which  we  both  of  us  instinctively  made,  betrayed  the 
whole.  Fletcher  gave  but  one  glance  at  us,  one  at  the  curious 
audience,  now  in  a  buzz  of  wonder ;  and,  snatching  his  hat 
from  the  seat  behind  him,  he  bounded  for  the  door.  The  con- 
gregation was  astounded ;  and  poor  Ada  and  I  trembled  like 
two  leaves  in  a  storm.  Slowly,  and  one  by  one,  the  people 
went  out ;  and  that  night  a  light  was  kept  burning  in  every 
house  for  fear  of  the  mad  tutor. 

"  Do  you  know  what  was  the  matter  with  Mr.  Fletcher  last 
evening  ?  "  inquired  Deacon  Palmer  of  his  daughter,  while  at 
the  breakfast-table.  Ada's  face  took  on  the  hue  of  a  full- 
blown peony.  "  Then  you  have  seen  this  before  ?  "  and  the 
deacon  pulled  from  his  pocket  the  little  book  tied  with  the 
blue  riband. 

"  I  am  sorry,  papa ;  indeed,  I  am  very  sorry.  I  did  not 
intend  to  mortify  Mr.  Fletcher  so  much  —  I  only  slipped  in 
that  paper  for  a  frolic  ;"  and  poor  Ada  actually  burst  into 
tears. 

"  Then  you  have  not  read  it  ?" 


A  CASE  CF  LUNACY  NOT  UNCOMMON.          93 

"  Oh,  no,  papa  !  you  could  not  think  I  would  be  so  mean  ?  " 

"  Well,  Mr.  Fletcher  thought  you  had.  I  found  this  by 
the  church-door,  where  he  dropped  it.  If  you  do  not  know 
what  paper  you  slipped  in  for  a  frolic,  you  may  read  it  now." 

Ada's  eyes  grew  larger  and  larger  as  she  perused  the  precious 
document  which  had  turned  Jem  Fletcher  into  a  madman  ; 
and  such  a  volley  of  laughter  as  she  closed  it  with,  had  never 
before  burst  even  from  her  merry  heart. 

No  wonder  that  poor  Jem  was  mortified  past  redemption ; 
for  the  note,  which  he  supposed  Ada  had  perused,  gave  a  full 
account  of  his  plans  and  prospects  to  his  friend  Tom ;  and 
closed  with  a  characteristic  eulogium  on  pretty  damsels  in 
general,  and  moneyed  pretty  ones  in  particular. 

Jem  Fletcher  has  never  been  heard  of  since  at  Alderbrook ; 
and  many  a  good  lady>  to  this  day,  often  expresses  the  hope, 
that  the  poor  dear  young  man  has.  found  shelter  in  some 
lunatic  asylum. 


94 


THE  GREAT  MARCH  HOLIDAY. 

THE  boisterous,  bustling,  blowing,  chilling  month  of  March  ! 
Ugh  !  it  makes  me  shiver  to  think  of  it !  Even  its  smiles  are 
undesirable  ^-mud-producers  as  they  are.  But  yet  it  brings, 
like  every  other  part  of  the  year,  its  own  peculiar  pleasures. 
It  is,  indeed,  a  season  of  the  utmost  interest  and  importance  to 
a  large  class,  quite  as  likely  to  supply  us  with  future  states- 
men as  college  walls  or  city  boundaries.  It  is  strange  how 
much,  and  yet  how  little,  we  are  indebted  to  position  and  edu- 
cation for  what  we  afterward  become.  The  pale  student,  with 
his  classic  face,  soul-beaming  eye,  and  graceful  step,  bows 
himself  from  our  presence  on  commencement  day  ;  while  our 
hopes  and  good  wishes  follow  him  on  what  we  believe  will 
be  a  bright  career ;  and  we  never  hear  of  him  again.  The 
awkward,  square-shouldered  country  lad  comes  trudging  into 
town  with  his  grain,  perhaps,  and  at  evening  slips  away  to  the 
.ecture-roem.  We  observe  neither  his  coming  nor  his  going, 
but  if  we  did  we  could  scarce  see  the  strong  intellect  burst- 
ing its  rough  kernel.  Years  pass,  and  suddenly  a  great 
man  rises  before  us — a  kind  of  intellectual  miracle.  The  dis- 
trict school  was  the  nursery  of  this  intellect ;  a  country  news- 
paper lent  its  aid  to  foster  it ;  books,  old  dry  books,  that  those 
acquainted  with  modern  literature  would  never  think  of  read- 
ing, hedged  it  round  with  common  sense ;  occasional  visiters 
and  occasional  visits  added  to  the  fund  of  information  which 
the  newspaper  supplied ;  thought,  driven  to  feed  upon  itself 
for  want  of  other  food,  wrought  itself  into  a  giant ;  and  so  the 
wonder  grew. 

So  the  district  school  is  a  very  important  thing ;  and  hence 
we  aie  not  disposed  to  undervalue  the  holyday  at  its  close — • 


THE  GREAT  MARCH  HOLYDAY.  95 

a  great  and  important  day,  not  to  be  surpassed  by  Fourth-of- 
July  independence  or  Christmas  feasting  and  frolic.  The 
close  of  the  winter  school  is  very  much  like  the  breaking  up 
of  a  half-tamed  menagerie.  As  some  cf  the  more  loving  sort 
of  animals  linger  around  their  keeper,  for  old  affection's  sake, 
so  Lucy  or  Tommy  hang,  finger  in  mouth,  upon  the  door- 
latch,  or  creep,  pussy-like,  near  the  desk,  half-ashamed,  yet 
loath  to  go  without  the  farewell  smile.  Others  stand  undis- 
turbed and  unmoved,  like  sturdy  bruin  or  Moses  Meecham ; 
while  a  few  of  the  wildest,  including  the  whole  catalogue  of 
apes,  enter  upon  some  mischievous  prank,  as  Zeke  Brown  re- 
moves the  door-step,  or  Fred  Lightbody  purloins  the  school- 
master's spectacles,  and  kindly  adjusts  his  wig  on  one  side  of 
his  head.  But  by  far  the  greater  part  of  these  freed  prisoners 
(from  both  menageries)  scamper  as  though  for  dear  life  ;  and 
scarce  knowing  whether  their  feet  are  in  the  air  or  on  the 
ground,  give  such  an  idea  of  Babel  as  your  imagination  never 
conjured  up.  Oh,  those  are  very  desperate  hopefuls  that  in 
March  break  from  the  bondage  of  the  district  school ! 

I  once  had  the  pleasure  of  spending  a  winter  where  sleigh- 
ride's  and  apple-bees,  and  spelling  schools  and  grammar  schools, 
constituted  a  very  delightful  complement  of  the  useful  and  or- 
namental, and  made  the  weeks  and  months  go  by  with  the 
rapidity  of  a  season  in  town,  with  the  advantage  of  coming 
from  the  winter's  dissipation  with  added  freshness  and  vigor. 
Our  school-house  was  a  little  square  box  of  a  thing,  tucked 
down  at  one  corner  of  a  piece  of  woodland — not  for  the  ad- 
vantage of  shade — oh  no  !  All  the  trees  that  would  be  likely 
to  keep  off  the  broiling  sun  in  summer,  or  in  winter  prevent 
the  snow  from  drifting  eave-high  before  the  door,  were  care- 
fully cut  down  and  cleared  away.  It  must  be  owned  that  this 
was  not  the  best  situation  for  the  school-house,  but  Squire 
Jones  wanted  it  in  the  eastern  part  of  the  district,  and  Doctor 
White  was  determined  that  it  should  be  in  the  western ;  so, 
to  settle  the  difficulty,  the  puzzled  managers,  who  were  ex- 
pecting nearly  all  the  funds  from  these  two  titled  personages, 
decided  on  what  they  considered  a  central  position,  measuring 


96  THE  GREAT  MAHCH  HOLYDAY. 

off  equal  distances  from  each  hearth-stone.  The  result  was, 
both  great  men  were  offended,  and  refused  to  relax  their  in- 
sulted purse  strings.  But  the  school-house  was  built  at  last 
— a  little  "  teenty  taunty  "  nut-shell  of  a  "  concarn,"  the  roof 
making  a  rather  steep  inclined  plane  from  ridge-pole  to  eaves, 
which  latter  just  overtopped  an  ample  row  of  good-sized,  well- 
glazed  windows.  People  seem  to  have  discovered  an  intimate 
connexion  between  physical  and  intellectual  light,  imagining 
probably  that  there  is  some  kind  of  a  filter  in  the  brain,  by 
which  the  eye-blinding  stream  is  converted  into  a  yet  more 
subtle  fluid — -the  inner  light,  that  it  is  shockingly  transcen- 
dental to  furnish  with  a  name.  Our  school-house,  which  was 
fifteen  feet  square,  was  furnished  with  eleven  full-grown  win- 
dows ;  from  some  one  of  which  a  pane  of  glass  was  always 
broken,  and  its  place  supplied  by  hat  or  shawl.  Between  two 
of  these  windows  was  the  mouth  of  the  little  den,  and,  all  around 
it,  the  walls  were  ornamented  with  carved  work,  displaying  the 
artistic  developments  of  many  a  youthful  master  of  the  jack- 
knife. 

You  must  not  imagine  that  none  but  very  small  children 
attend  the  district  school ;  for  the  winter  brings  together  a 
motley  assemblage  of  all  ages,  from  the  sturdy  little  chap  in 
his  linsey-woolsey  and  checked  apron,  to  the  merry  maiden 
of  sixteen,  who  decorates  the  parlor  of  a  Sunday  evening  for 
the  reception  of  a  lover,  and  the  comely  youth  whose  strong 
arm  in  summer  guides  the  plough  and  swings  the  scythe.  It 
is  a  happy  place,  that  district  school ;  overflowing  with  the 
genuine  cream  of  fun ;  gay,  busy,  mischief-hatching,  and 
gloriously  mischief-executing.  A  very  happy  place  is  it ;  and 
I  cannot  imagine  what  creates  the  undefinable  longing  for  the 
"  last  day,"  which  seems  to  be  the  prevalent  feeling  among 
the  young  tyros,  any  more  than  I  can  imagine  why,  in  our 
highest  state  of  happiness,  we  are  ever  looking  forward  to  the 
morrow.  Whatever  may  be  the  reason,  the  arrival  of  the 
"  last  day "  is  carefully  watched  for ;  and,  despite  the  old 
adage,  it  comes  at  last;  while,  with  smoothed  aprons  and 
cleaned  faces,  and  all  bedecked  in  holyday  finery,  the  future 


THE  GREAT  MARCH  HOLYDAY.  97 

statesmen  and  (provided  success  attend  some  of  the  reformers 
of  the  present  day)  stateswomen,  sally  forth  to  the  place  of 
action. 

I  have  hitherto  neglected  to  describe  the  interior  of  the 
Maple  Bush  school-house;  but  while  the  young  belles  are 
peeping  at  each  other  over  the  tops  of  their  books  to  see  which 
is  best  dressed,  the  beaux  penning  their  last  doggerels,  and 
the  younger  lads  and  lasses  alternately  sitting  bolt  upright, 
toes  to  the  crack  and  arms  twisted  on  the  breast,  like  a  Hol- 
land dough-nut,  and  lolling  half  over  to  the  floor  in  forgetful 
laziness,  we  may  get  time  for  a  glance. 

Yet,  now  that  I  think  again,  you  will  not  need  a  descrip- 
tion, for  I  am  on  an  old  theme ;  and  the  ranges  of  seats,  the 
schoolmaster's  throne,  with  its  "might-makes-right"  corner, 
appropriated  to  crumbled  ginger-bread,  half-eaten  apples,  bro- 
ken jack-knives,  strings,  whip-lashes,  tops,  and  spring-colored 
love-letters,  the  pine  floor  which  is  scrubbed  twice  a  year,  the 
evergreens,  the  ferule,  and  the  rod  are  no  new  things  to  you, 
particularly  if  you  have  ever  happened  to  meet  with  "  The 
District  School  as  it  Was."  One  thing,  however,  has  been 
changed  since  those  days.  The  old-fashioned  fire-place, 
which  formerly  yawned  on  one  side  beneath  the  stick  chim- 
ney, has  within  the  last  dozen  years  been  superseded  by  a 
rusty,  smoking  stove,  on  the  top  of  which  the  children  roast 
the  apples  and  cheese  for  their  dessert.  You  would  wonder, 
if  you  were  acquainted  in  the  Maple  Bush  district,  how  such 
an  innovation  was  ever  admitted  into  a  place  where  all  are 
such  sticklers  for  ancient  customs.  It  was  done,  as  most 
things  are  in  this  world,  whether  good  or  bad,  from  a  spirit 
of  opposition.  Nobody  had  a  stove,  or  dreamed  of  having 
one,  until  an  old  man  of  our  vicinity,  who  had  been  paying  a 
visit  in  town,  happened  to  get  into  a  rage  one  day  about 
"these  new-fangled  notions  for  picking  honest  folks'  pockets." 
Then,  as  in  duty  bound,  to  prevent  a  man's  storming  for 
naught,  and  wasting  his  eloquence  on  the  empty  air,  there 
rose  up  a  number  of  his  neighbors  to  oppose,  and  thereby  test, 
his  opinions.  It  became,  therefore,  absolutely  necessary  for 

VOL.  n.  9 


98  THE  GREAT  MARCH  HOLYDAY. 

every  man  of  the  stove  party  to  be  in  possession  of  the  artjcle 
in  question ;  and  so  absolutely  did  these  men  bear  sway,  that 
at  last  the  offensive  stove  found  its  way  even  to  the  very 
school-house.  Never  was  there  a  greater  warfare  about  old 
and  new  measures  than  was  carried  on  in  this  case ;  but  the 
stove  men  had  strong  limbs  and  powerful  voices,  and,  above 
all,  their  chief  speakers  had,  if  not  full  purses,  full  granaries  ; 
so  they  came  off  victorious.  The  result  was,  the  anti-stoveites 
gave  due  notice  that  they  should  withdraw  their  patronage 
from  the  school ;  kept  their  word ;  and,  in  process  of  time, 
removed  to  some  more  congenial  neighborhood,  where,  if  they 
were  obliged  to  look  now  and  then  upon  a  stove,  nobody  would 
know  that  the  sight  was  at  all  offensive. 

Well  do  I  remember  my  last  day  at  the  Maple  Bush  school. 
The  grand  event  had  been  anticipated  for  a  long  time  previous ; 
and,  for  a  whole  month,  scarce  anything  had  been  talked  of  but 
the  last  day,  and  what  would  be  fitting  and  proper  for  it.  We 
had  conned  the  spelling-book,  grammar,  and  geography,  till  the 
contents  of  our  juvenile  works  were  at  our  tongues'  ends,  and 
could  be  rattled  off  as  a  pedler  rattles  over  his  assortment  of 
"  pins,  needles,  scissors,  thimbles,  gloves,  silks,  laces,  black 
ladies'  hose,  shoe-strings,"  &c.,  &c.  Not  that  we  pretended 
to  know  the  meaning  of  the  words  which  rolled  over  our  pout- 
ing lips  so  glibly :  we  had  never  dreamed  that  written  words 
were  "  signs  of  ideas."  A  class  of  young  mathematicians  had 
managed,  without  the  aid  of  the  now  essential  black-board,  to 
show  a  passable  acquaintance  with  Daboll's  Rules ;  (rules,  by 
the  way,  not  intended  to  explain  the  after  process,  but  set  up 
to  be  explained  when  practice  had  made  their  meaning  dedu- 
cible ;)  the  "  first  class"  had  read  for  the  twentieth  time,  "Ad- 
dress to  the  Young,"  and  "  Oh,  solitude,  romantic  maid ! " 
from  the  English  Reader;  and  the  principal  spelling-class 
had  practised  on  "  Michilimackinac,"  "  phthysic,"  and  the 
changes  of  "  ail-to-be-troubled-table,"  until  quite  out  of  breath. 
But  Jack  Winslow  and  Peter  Quim !  ah,  they  were  the  boast 
of  the  school,  and  to  their  histrionic  powers  the  proud  heart 
of  Mr.  Linkum  owed  its  highest  swellings.  Nothing  could 


THE  GREAT  MARCH  HOLYDAY.  VV 

equal  the  grace  with  which  they  flourished  hands  and  feet,  or 
the  grenadier  style  of  their  strut,  as  they  paraded  up  and  down 
the  little  corner  which  had  been  allotted  to  their  scenic  per- 
formances. To  be  sure  it  was  a  very  small  corner,  but  then 
it  required  fewer  blankets  to  partition  it  off,  and  much  less 
time  and  talent  to  decorate  it  with  proper  scenery.  Never 
was  a  school  better  prepared  for  the  final  ordeal ;  and  never 
was  a  teacher  better  satisfied  with  the  success  of  his  drilling 
than  our  honored  Mr.  Linkum. 

Fond  of  mental  display  as  we  were,  it  is  not  to  be  expected 
that  we  should  neglect  every  other  kind  ;  and,  for  more  than 
a  week,  we  had  employed  every  leisure  moment  in  decorating 
the  walls  with  evergreens,  consulting  with  each  other  how  our 
simple  furniture  should  be  arranged,  and  practising  bows  and 
courtesies.  Anxiously  had  we  watched  the  clouds  for  many 
days,  fearful  of  a  March  storm ;  but  with  what  joyous  heart- 
boundings  did  we  hail  the  morning  of  our  gala-day.  The  air 
had  that  rich,  pleasing  softness,  which,  although  it  makes  the 
earth  seem  about  to  melt  away  beneath  our  feet,  we  welcome 
so  gratefully,  loving  to  feel  its  delicious  kiss  on  cheek  and 
forehead.  Here  and  there  the  snow  had  melted  off,  exposing 
little  patches  of  faded  green,  where  nestled  the  spicy  blossoms 
of  the  trailing  arbutis,  amid  piles  of  withered  leaves,  blown 
together  by  the  winds  of  the  preceding  autumn.  Then,  on 
one  knoll  peculiarly  favored  by  the  sun,  the  little  pink-eyed 
daytonias  had  actually  congregated  in  tribes,  and  amid  the 
moss  in  the  centre  —  no,  I  was  not  mistaken  —  the  kepatica 
itself!  That  snowy  white,  variegated  by  the  faintest  tints  of 
pink,  and  blue,  and  purple,  was  more  familiar  than  the  alpha, 
bet ;  for  it  was  in  that  fragrant  alphabet  that  I  had  taken  my 
first  life-lesson.  Oh,  that  bright,  rich  March  morning ! 
Gladness  was  in  the  sky,  and  on  the  air,  and  upspringing 
from  the  earth.  And  those  were  light  hearts,  indeed,  which 
came  out  to  welcome  it. 

The  sun  had  crept  up  the  sky  but  a  little  way  before  we 
were  congregated  about  the  door  of  the  school-house  at  the 
corner  of  the  woods  ;  and  the  commingling  of  merry  voices, 


100  THE  GREAT  MARCH  HOLYDAY. 

if  not  quite  as  musical  as  that  of  the  summer  birds,  was  cer- 
tainly as  glad.  And  what  was  the  source  of  all  this  gladness? 
We  loved  dearly  to  be  together,  loved  our  good  Mr.  Linkum, 
loved  our  sports,  and  some  of  us  loved  our  books  —  and  we 
had  come  together  for  the  purpose  of  parting.  How  could  we 
be  glad  ?  Oh,  a  bright  day  was  before  us,  and  it  was  quite 
too  early  to  begin  to  grieve.  Surely  children,  with  their  de- 
termined joyousness,  in  the  face  of  shadows,  and  tears,  and 
death  itself,  are  the  true  philosophers  of  this  world.  A  kind 
Providence  has  so  mingled  our  cup  that  the  sweet  is  always 
beside  the  bitter ;  the  wise  man  sips  at  the  bitter,  and  mur- 
murs constantly ;  the  child  drinks  down  the  sweet,  and  never 
looks  at  the  other. 

The  "  last  day"  passed  pleasantly  with  us  all.  Fathers  and 
mothers,  older  sisters  and  brothers,  fond,  chuckling  grand- 
papas, and  aunties  still  more  fond,  came  crowding  in,  and 
listened  with  rapt  attention  to  the  doings  of  the  youthful 
prodigies.  Then  two  grave  gentlemen  rose  slowly  from  their 
seats  and  made  some  flattering  remarks ;  suggesting,  however, 
as  ballast  for  their  praise,  that  the  girls  might  have  read  a  little 
louder,  and  the  boys  a  little  slower,  and  that  by  the  copy-books 
they  had  discovered  a  prevailing  propensity  for  crooked-backed 
t's,  and  finger-prints  done  in  ink.  This  accomplished,  the 
company  retired,  and  then  the  grand  treasure  was  unlocked. 
Did  you  ever,  dear  reader,  did  you  ever  stand  on  the  tip-toe 
of  expectation ,  the  blood  tingling  in  your  veins  away  down  to 
the  tips  of  your  fingers,  and  your  eyes  sparkling  with  the 
brimmings  of  a  heart  crowded  with  pleasure,  while  the  blue, 
and  red,  and  green,  and  yellow  treasures  were  scattered 
among  your  companions?  Then,  when  your  own  turn  came, 
and  the  bow  and  "  thank  you,  sir,"  were  given  with  shame- 
faced exultation,  and  you  had  lifted  the  cover  and  found  pre- 
cisely the  thing  you  were  hoping  for !  "  Little  Red  Riding 
Hood,"  perhaps;  or  maybe  the  "  Children  in  the  Wood,"  all 
done  in  the  quaintest  of  rhymes,  with  the  quaintest  of  cuts  to 
illustrate  them  —  ah  !  do  you  recollect  that  day  ?  and  do  you 
ever  expect  or  wish  to  be  happier  ? 


THE  GREAT  MARCH  HOLYDAY.  101 

In  addition  to  the  gifts  usually  made  on  such  occasions,  it 
had  been  the  practice  of  teachers  at  the  Maple  Bush  to  award 
a  prize  to  the  pupil  who  had  made  the  greatest  proficiency. 
This  plan  is  doubtless  ill-judged,  being  productive  of  many 
evil  consequences ;  but  it  was  formerly  extensively  practised, 
and  may  be  none  the  less  so  now.  The  result  of  the  harmful 
spirit  of  rivalry  thus  excited,  is  usually  a  period  of  contention, 
and  finally  a  settled  dislike,  which  strengthens  into  hatred,  for 
the  successful  candidate.  This  hatred  is  often  too  deeply 
rooted  to  yield  to  the  influence  of  time ;  and  with  some  it 
mingles  as  a  bitter  ingredient  in  the  cup  of  their  after  life. 
It  was  not,  however,  so  at  the  Maple  Bush ;  though  justice 
and  equity  had  but  little  to  do  with  keeping  off  the  evil.  We 
very  well  understood  (no  disrespect  to  our  half-year  monarch, 
whose  taste  and  judgment  cannot  be  too  highly  commended) 
that  the  prize  was  not  awarded  to  literary  merit  —  for  some- 
how the  good  schoolmaster,  by  a  process  of  reasoning  un- 
known to  some  of  us  then,  though  we  are  all  wiser  now,  con- 
trived to  have  some  favorite  bear  away  the  prize.  I  say  the 
process  was  unknown  to  us  then ;  for  we  had  not  learned  how 
strangely  a  pretty  face  (or  even  a  face  that  is  not  pretty,  if  one 
can  only  imagine  it  is)  distorts  the  mental  vision,  and  invests 
those  favored  with  our  partiality  with  all  the  qualities  we  wish 
them  to  possess. 

Dolly  Foster,  a  dark-eyed,  roguish-lipped,  merry-hearted 
specimen  of  bright  sixteen,  with  more  mischief  in  her  than 
erudition,  and  more  of  kindness  than  either,  had  so  often  won 
the  prize  at  the  hands  of  admiring  schoolmasters,  that  it  had 
become  quite  a  matter  of  course ;  and  certainly  no  one  had 
reason  to  suspect  a  failure  on  the  part  of  the  belle  of  the  Maple 
Bush  this  season. 

"  I  wonder  what  the  prize  will  be  —  something  nice,  of 
course." 

"Ah,  catch  Mr.  Linkum  giving  anything  not  nice  —  eh, 
Dolly?" 

And  then  Dolly  would  blush;  and  then  such  a  shout! 
Laughing  is  healthful ;  and  I  have  no  doubt  but  the  founda- 

VOL.  n.  9* 


102  THE  UREAT  MARCH  HOLYDAY. 

tion  for  many  a  good  constitution  was  laid  in  that  school-house 
at  the  Maple  Bush. 

The  winks  and  inuendoes  by  which  pretty  Dolly  Foster 
was  so  nearly  demolished,  were  not  altogethei  the  result  of  a 
love  of  teasing.  There  was  something  to  tease  "  little  cherry- 
cheeks"  for.  Every  girl  and  every  boy  in  our  school  remem- 
bered how,  on  one  occasion,  a  whole  party  of  disobedient  sliders 
had  been  most  unexpectedly  forgiven ;  and  when,  in  a  state 
of  pleased  wonderment,  they  looked  about  them  for  the  cause, 
there  stood  Miss  Dolly,  the  foremost  of  the  transgressors,  close 
by  the  soft-hearted  Mr.  Linkum,  looking  up,  oh  so  pleadingly ! 
and  he,  the  drollest  combination  of  would-be  severity  and  em- 
barrassed relenting  that  ever  was  seen.  The  little  community 
said  nothing ;  but  there  was  an  instantaneous  illumination  of 
countenance,  as  though  an  idea  worth  having  had  flashed  in 
upon  them ;  and  henceforth  Miss  Dolly  became  a  sort  of  scape- 
goat for  the  whole. 

Then,  on  another  occasion  —  ah!  Dolly  had  dared  too 
much  then;  it  was  an  act  of  downright  disobedience,  and 
could  not  be  tolerated.  She  took  her  stand  beside  the  mas- 
ter's desk  with  a  kind  of  abashed  sauciness ;  confident,  yet 
timid ;  evidently  a  little  sorry  that  there  was  quite  so  much 
roguery  nestled  in  the  curve  of  that  pretty  lip  of  hers,  or 
that  being  there  it  could  not  keep  its  niche  without  creep- 
ing down  to  the  naughty  little  fingers,  and  at  the  same 
time  pleased  with  the  opportunity  of  testing  her  power.  At 
first  she  called  to  her  aid  her  ever-ready  wit,  and  endeavored 
to  turn  the  whole  affair  into  ridicule ;  then  she  pouted,  trotted 
her  little  foot  in  anger,  and  looked  sulky ;  but  Mr.  Linkum, 
though  evidently  distressed,  was  not  to  be  thus  baffled.  My 
readers  must  remember  that  some  dozen  years  ago,  "  govern- 
ment by  moral  suasion"  was  not  so  fashionable  as  at  the  pres- 
ent day ;  and  no  age  or  sex  was  exempt  from  birchen-rod  or 
cherry  ferule.  Dolly  could  go  a  little  further  than  anybody  else ; 
but  there  were  bounds  even  to  her  liberty,  or  the  dignity  of 
the  schoolmaster  would  be  sadly  compromised.  Dolly  must 
be  punished,  that  was  certain — and  neither  laughing  nor 


THE    GREAT    MARCH    HOLYDAY.  103 

pouting  could  save  her.  The  poor  schoolmaster,  the  greater 
sufferer  by  far,  was  not  the  only  one  in  the  room  who  would 
have  taken  a  hundred  blows  to  save  her  pretty  hand  one  ;  and, 
as  we  saw  him  eyeing  his  huge  ferine  with  evidently  murder- 
ous intent,  a  strange  silence  reigned  throughout  the  circle. 
Even  the  girls,  after  slightly  fluttering  the  leaves  of  their 
books,  and  shuffling  their  feet  carelessly,  as  much  as  to  say, 
"  Who  cares  ?  What  better  is  her  slim  little  contrivance  of  a 
hand  than  ours  ? "  seemed  to  partake  of  the  general  interest. 
Mr.  Linkum  eyed  the  ferule  sternly — a  kind  of  desperate 
sternness  like  that  the  timid  sheriff  feels  when  he  adjusts  the 
fatal  knot ;  then  seized  it  resolutely,  and  petrified  us  all  by  the 
low,  terrible  words — "  Give  me  your  hand  ! "  All  were  petri- 
fied but  Dolly  herself;  she,  poor  child,  was  meekly,  hopelessly 
heart-broken.  Timidly  the  pretty  hand  was  extended;  but 
there  was  a  heart-throb  in  every  dear  little  finger,  which  poor 
Mr.  Linkum  must  have  been  insane  to  think  of  withstanding. 
Oh,  there  is  a  witchery  in  a  hand,  in  some  hands  ;  and  the 
soft,  beseeching  touch  of  Dolly's,  all  quivering  as  it  was  with 
agitation,  Went  (I  cannot  say  precisely  how,  but  doubtless 
Neurologists  might  tell)  to  Mr.  Linkum's  heart.  He  sudden- 
ly turned  very  red,  as  though  that  delicate  touch  had  pressed 
all  the  blood  from  his  heart ;  then  very  pale,  as  though  it  had 
called  home  the  crimson  tide  and  buried  it  there  —  and  the 
hand  clasping  the  raised  ferule  dropped  helplessly  by  his  side. 
Sweet  little  Dolly  (her  head  had  been  drooping  on  her  bosom 
for  the  last  half  minute)  raised  her  soft  blue  eyes  pleadingly  to 
the  master's  face,  and  the  next  moment  they  overflowed — 
the  big  tear-drops  gushed  from  their  sunny  fountain  and  fell 
in  a  sudden  shower  upon  her  own  hand  and  his.  Poor  Mr. 
Linkum !  what  a  savage  he  felt  himself !  It  was  too,  too 
much. 

The  poor  fellow  turned  suddenly  to  his  desk — Dolly,  among 
the  dozen  seats  which  were  offered  her,  sought  tfie  nearest, 
and  hid  her  burning  face  in  a  neighbor's  apron,  while  a  sim- 
ultaneous titter  went  around  the  room ;  and  there  was  a  gen- 
eral tossing  of  pretty  heads  and  ominous  shakes  of  would-be- 


104  THE  GREAT  MARCH  HOLYDAY. 

wise  ones.  Fred  Lightbody  (but  then  Fred  was  a  wag,  and 
was  seldom  more  than  half  believed)  asserted  that  when  Mr. 
Linkum  turned  from  the  desk,  where  he  stood  for  several  min- 
utes intently  examining  a  book  which  chanced  to  be  open  at  a 
blank  page,  his  eye  had  a  singular  dewiness  about  it,  and  we 
all  observed  a  tremulous  faltering  in  his  voice  when  he  ordered 
us  to  our  books.  We  remarked,  too,  that  he  did  not  look  at 
Dolly  again  that  day — and  that  unusual  flashes  of  red  spread 
now  and  then  across  his  face,  as  though  his  anger  were  quite 
uncontrollable. 

That  was  the  last  time  Dolly  Foster  ever  transgressed. 
She  was  just  as  mischievous,  just  as  full  of  fun  and  frolicking 
as  ever;  and  at  the  spelling-schools,  singing-schools  and 
apple-bees,  she  played  off  a  thousand  pranks  on  wise,  sober 
Mr.  Linkum — but  in  the  day  school  pretty  Dolly  was  as 
demure  as  a  kitten. 

All  these  things  were  called  to  memory  on  the  morning  of 
the  "  last  day ;"  and  who  of  us  could  doubt  but  Dolly  Foster 
would  receive  the  prize  ?  She  had  won  it  before,  when  there 
were  not  half  as  many  indications  of  partiality.  ' 

"  I  wonder  what  the  prize  will  be  ?  " 

The  same  wonder  had  been  expressed  a  hundred  times  that 
winter. 

"  Something  handsome,  of  course." 

"  Oh  yes,  of  course."  And  then  a  merry  burst  of  laughter 
went  the  rounds. 

"  What  can  make  Dolly  Foster  so  late  ?" 

"  What  can  make  Dolly  Foster  so  late  ?  "  was  echoed  and 
reechoed,  as  the  hour  of  nine  drew  near.  We  knowing  ones 
were  of  the  opinion  that  she  was  detained  by  some  toilet  diffi- 
culties ;  that  her  beautiful  hair  had  taken  a  fancy  just  now, 
when  it  should  have  been  most  pliable,  not  to  curl,  or  that  the 
mantuamaker  had  ruined  her  dress.  But  these  were  trifles 
to  Dolly  Foster,  and  we  were  confident  that  they  would  not 
keep  her  away  from  school.  What,  then,  was  our  disappoint- 
ment, our  consternation,  nay,  our  vexation,  (people  are  always 
vejced  when  they  guess  wrong,)  when  not  only  on  the  morn- 


THE  GREAT  MARCH  HOLYDAY.  105 

ing  but  afternoon  of  the  last  day,  it  was  found  that  Miss  Dolly 
had  absented  herself.  It  was  perfectly  unaccountable.  She 
was  not  ill,  for  she  had  been  seen  flying  from  one  part  of  the 
spacious  farm-house  to  another,  by  those  who  had  passed 
there,  as  blithe  and  happy  as  a  bee ;  and  when  her  brother 
Dick  was  questioned  about  the  matter,  he  laughed  and  looked 
at  the  master,  while  the  master  blushed  and  looked  out  of  the 
window. 

As  I  have  said  before,  the  last  day  passed  off  finely,  except 
that  Mr.  Linkum  made  some  mistakes,  such  as  calling  Fred 
Lightbody  Dolly — and  when  he  was  asked  the  time,  saying 
eight  o'clock  instead  of  three.  And,  as  I  have  not  said  before, 
the  prize  was  this  time  really  a  reward  for  application.  It 
was  won  by  Abraham  Nelson,  the  great  awkward  but  perse- 
veringly  studious  son  of  Nelson,  the  day -laborer ;  and  Abra- 
ham Nelson  was  persecuted  forever  after.  It  was  not  strange. 
Vanity  is  undoubtedly  everywhere  the  same  reprehensible 
thing ;  but  the  vanity  of  a  pretty  girl  has  something  rather 
fascinating  in  it,  while  that  of  a  great  lubberly  boy  is  unen- 
durable. Abraham  Nelson's  vanity  took  on  the  most  disa- 
greeable form,  and  so  both  parties  were  sufferers. 

Mr.  Linkum  was  a  general  favorite,  notwithstanding  his 
partiality  in  a  particular  case,  and  I  believe  the  "  big  boys  " 
of  our  school  (that  is,  all  the  hopefuls  between  fourteen  and 
twenty-one)  never  felt  more  inclined  to  be  sadly  serious  than 
as  the  hour  of  four  drew  near  on  that  long-expected,  long- 
desired  March  holyday.  They  gathered  around  the  master 
— each  one  dreading  to  give  the  good-bye  shake  of  the  hand 
— and  I  remember  that  for  one  I  felt  exceedingly  vexed  by 
his  seeming  indifference.  He  was  evidently  embarrassed ;  he 
half  wished  to  appear  serious,  as  became  the  dignity  of  his 
station ;  and  yet  there  was  a  look  of  mirthful  exultation  sur- 
mounting all,  which  made  the  expression  of  his  face  irresisti- 
bly comical.  He  saw  that  all  were  imbibing  his  spirit,  and 
finally  he  broke  away  from  the  circle  with  a  "  Never  mind, 
boys,  we  will  have  fine  times  yet ;"  and  jumping  upon  a  pass- 
ing sleigh,  he  was  carried  out  of  sight.  Mr.  Linkum  did  not 
promise  without  cause. 


106  THE  GREAT  MARCH  HOLYDAY. 

There  was  a  wedding  at  the  Maple  Bush  that  evening — a 
quiet,  cozy,  family  affair ;  and  the  pretty  belle  of  the  district, 
though  quite  as  pretty  and  quite  at  mischievously  attractive, 
was  a  belle  no  longer.  Bright,  witching  Dolly  Foster  !  what 
a  dear  little  neighborhood  blessing  she  had  always  been,  with 
her  sunny  face  and  sunny  heart  and  open  hand !  And  what 
a  charming  little  bride  of  a  Madam  Linkum  she  made  !  How 
everybody  loved  her !  How  the  old  ladies  praised  her  docility 
and  teachableness !  and  how  the  young  ladies  doted  on 
her  as  a  model  of  taste  and  socialness !  Oh,  Dolly  Foster 
was  the  flower  of  the  Maple  Bush;  but  bewitching  Mrs. 
Linkum  was  its  gem — its  lamp — its  star. 


107 


NOT  A  POET. 

I  AM  a  little  maiden, 

Who  fain  would  touch  the  lyre ; 
But  my  poor  fingers  ever 

Bring  discord  from  the  wire. 
'T  is  strange  I  'm  not  a  poet ; 

There  's  music  in  my  heart ; 
Some  mystery  must  linger 

About  this  magic  art. 

I  'm  told  that  joyous  spirits, 

Untouched  by  grief  or  care, 
In  mystery  so  holy 

Are  all  too  light  to  share. 
My  heart  is  very  gladsome ; 

But  there 's  a  corner  deep, 
Where  many  a  shadow  nestles, 

And  future  sorrows  sleep. 

I  hope  they  '11  not  awaken 

As  yet  for  many  a  year ; 
There  's  not  on  earth  a  jewel, 

That 's  worth  one  grief-torn  tear. 
Long  may  the  harp  be  silent, 

If  Sorrow's  touch  alone, 
Upon  the  chords  descending, 

Has  power  to  wake  its  tone. 

I  'd  never  be  a  poet, 

My  bounding  heart  to  hush 
And  lay  down  at  the  altar 

For  Sorrow's  foot  to  crush. 


08  NOT    A    POET. 

Ah,  no  !  I  '11  gather  sunshine 
For  coming  evening's  hours ; 

And  while  the  spring-time  lingers, 
I  '11  garner  up  its  flowers, 

I  fain  would  learn  the  music 

Of  those  who  dwell  in  heaven  ; 
For  woe-tuned  harp  was  never 

To  seraph  fingers  given. 
But  I  will  strive  no  longer 

To  waste  my  heart-felt  mirth ; 
I  will  mind  me  that  the  gifted 

Are  the  stricken  ones  of  earth. 


lOt) 


TWO    NIGHTS    IN    THE    "NIEUW 
NEDERLANDTS." 

IT  was  on  the  night  of  the  25th  of  February,  1643,  that  a 
middle-aged  man,  with  an  honest,  frank,  sun-browned  face 
and  a  powerful  frame,  sat  and  warmed  himself  by  the  kitchen 
fire  in  the  Governor's  house  at  Fort  Amsterdam.  He  was 
singularly  uneasy ;  every  now  and  then  clenching  his  fist  and 
moving  his  nervous  arm  as  in  angry  gesticulation ;  while  his 
fine  eye  turned  from  one  object  to  another  with  a  kind  of 
eager  dread,  and  his  naturally  clear,  open  countenance  was 
drawn  into  a  scowl  compounded  of  various  strong  emotions. 
He  was  alone,  and  bore  himself  much  as  though  belonging  to 
the  household ;  for  he  certainly  could  not  have  been  greatly 
inferior  to  its  master  in  point  of  dignity.  All  within  doors 
was  perfectly  silent — painfully  so,  it  seemed  to  the  stern 
watcher — and  within,  the  heavy,  monotonous  tread  of  a  sen- 
tinel, at  a  little  distance,  gave  the  only  evidence  that  the  pulse 
of  the  young  city  had  not  ceased  its  breathings.  At  last  the 
man  drew  from  his  pocket  a  massive  " Nuremburg  egg"  and 
held  it  up  to  the  light. 

"  Twelve  o'clock — five — almost  ten  minutes  past !  Thank 
God,  if  their  hellish  plan  has  miscarried  ! " 

A  long,  loud,  terrible  shriek,  as  of  a  multitude  of  voices 
combining  their  agony,  came  up  from  the  distance  even  as 
he  spoke  ;  and,  dropping  the  watch  upon  the  stone  hearth,  the 
listener  sprang  with  an  exclamation  of  horror  to  his  feet. 

"  God  forgive  me,  if  I  curse  my  race  and  nation  !  It  is  a 
deed  worthy  of  the  devil — and  they  call  themselves  men  and 
Christians ! " 

He  strode  up  and  down  the  long  kitchen,  his  brows  knit 
and  his  hand  on  the  hilt  of  his  sword,  muttering  as  he  went, 

VOL.  n.  10 


110  TWO   NIGHTS   IN   THE 

"  Without  the  consent  of  the  committee  !  —  in  the  face  of  my 
protestation  as  its  head ! — the  bloody-minded  littleness  of  the 
assassin! — creeping  upon  the  defenceless  at  midnight ! — why, 
their  savage  doings  at  Swanendael  and  Staten  Island  were 
Christian  deeds  to  this !  If  evil  come,  if  evil  come  of  it, 
Wilhelm  Kieft,  thou  shall  be  the  first  sufferer,  if  there  be 
strength  in  the  hand  of  Pieterszen  de  Vries  to  push  thee  from 
thy  kennel.  Dog !  base  dog !  Nay ;  I  belie  the  brute  to 
name  thee  so,  cowardly  blood-sucker  that  thou  art ! " 

He  opened  the  door,  and,  walking  forth,  mounted  the  para- 
pets. The  cries  of  suffering  and  terror  had  entirely  ceased ; 
but  the  noise  of  fire-arms  came  from  Pavonia,  and  gleams  of 
light  flashed  from  the  opposite  shore  and  gilded  the  waters  of 
the  bay. 

"  A  mighty  feat,  indeed  !  '  worthy  the  heroes  of  old  Rome  ! ' 
Noble  Kieft !  thy  employers  shall  have  a  full  account  of  these 
brave  doings." 

The  speaker  felt  a  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

"  Ha,  De  Heer !  I  am  glad  to  see  you." 

"  But  you  should  have  slept,  my  good  Lilier ;  you  will 
have  cause  to  think  lightly  enough  of  your  adopted  home, 
without  seeing  this." 

"  What  means  it,  De  Vries  ?  " 

"  Our  gallant  Director  is  desirous  of  making  himself  fa- 
mous ;  and  so  has  concocted  a  piece  of  villany  that  no  bucca- 
neer captain  on  the  high  seas  would  stain  his  honor  withal." 

"  I  thought  an  enemy  had  been  surprised,  and — " 

"  An  enemy !  no,  Lilier,  a  friend !  Let  us  go  in — the  air 
smells  of  murder,  and  I  cannot  bear  it." 

"  I  do  not  understand  you.     What  is  it  ?" 

"  Treachery.  More  than  one  hundred  of  our  friends  and 
neighbors,  Indians  from  Tappaen  and  Wickquaesgeck,  lay 
down  in  sight  of  the  fort  to-night,  never  dreaming  of  harm  ; 
and  they  have  all  been  murdered  in  their  sleep." 

"  Not  by  white  men  ?  " 

"  By  Kief's  soldiers." 

"  Dastardly  !     Such  things  should  not  be  suffered." 


NIEUW     NEDEELANDTS.  Ill 

"  How  are  they  to  be  avoided  ?  The  Company  care  but 
little  for  our  interests,  farther  than  our  prosperity  has  a  bear- 
ing on  their  commercial  enterprises." 

"  They  ought  to  be  made  to  listen ;  for  if  a  better  and  more 
prudent  man  be  not  selected  to  take  charge  of  the  colonies,  the 
abuses  of  Van  Twiller,  as  you  used  to  recount  them  to  me 
in  Holland,  will  find  more  than  a  parallel." 

"  Wouter  Van  Twiller  was  a  thrice  sodden  fool ;  yet  he 
had  a  man's  heart  in  his  bosom,  and  his  errors  were  the  result 
of  weakness,  not  vice ;  he  had  no  taste  for  lapping  up  human 
blood.  We  have  men  to  govern  us  in  the  East  Indies,  but 
here  they  give  us  nothing  but  blockheads  and  serpents." 

By  this  time  the  two  men  had  gained  the  kitchen  fire,  and 
the  light  was  shining  full  upon  their  faces.  The  companion 
of  the  patroon  was  a  very  young  man,  of  slight  figure  and 
delicate  features,  and  withal  a  high-bred  air,  which  denoted 
his  patrician  origin.  His  leading  characteristic  seemed  to  be 
extreme  gentleness ;  and  certainly  there  was  nothing  in  the 
large  blue  eyes  and  bright  golden  curls  that  fell  about  his 
neck,  instead  of  being  gathered  into  a  queue  after  the  fashion 
of  tHe  Hollanders,  (if  the  observer  could  but  shut  his  eyes  on 
an  occasional  drawing  in  of.  the  lip  and  swell  of  the  nostril,) 
indicative  of  superior  manliness.  Yet,  (and  the  bold  voyager 
knew  it  and  loved  him  for  it,)  in  that  very  bosom  slept  mate- 
rials for  a  hero.  So  might  have  looked  the  voluptuous  king 
who  dallied  away  his  time  among  fountains  and  flowers  and 
singing  girls ;  but  became  a  lion  in  the  hour  of  peril,  and, 
building  his  own  funeral  pile,  clung  to  his  throne  till  both 
were  ashes.  Yet  the  comparison  is  not  a  fair  one,  for  Lilier, 
if  gentle  as  a  girl  when  there  was  no  cause  for  the  exercise 
of  deeper  qualities,  was  also  as  pure.  With  a  spirit  deeply 
imbued  with  religious  feeling,  he  had  early  embraced  the  sen- 
timents of  the  Huguenots ;  and  when  a  mere  boy  had  turned 
to  Holland,  the  asylum  of  the  persecuted  of  all  creeds  and 
nations.  There  he  had  met  with  De  Vries,  then  master  of 
artillery  in  the  service  of  the  United  Provinces,  and  after- 
wards the  hardy  voyager  and  discreet  colonist.  There  was 


112  TWO    NIGHTS    IN    THE 

something  in  the  bold  chivalrous  character  of  this  enterprising 
man,  to  whom,  as  the  historian  Bancroft  has  it,  Delaware 
owes  its  existence,  that  made  him  a  kind  of  lion-hearted 
Richard  to  the  Frenchman.  Hence  a  warm  friendship 
sprang  up  between  them ;  for  which  the  impulsive  romance 
of  the  one  and  the  steady  sternness  of  the  other,  offered 
ample  materials.  De  Vries  seemed  ever  ready  to  regard  his 
young  friend  with  the  affectionate  interest  of  a  parent ;  while, 
at  the  same  time,  particularly  in  the  presence  of  strangers,  he 
preserved  towards  him  a  deference  of  manner  which  men 
were  ready  enough  to  set  down  to  the  account  of  high  birth. 

The  Hollander  had  spread  open  his  broad,  tough  palm  to 
the  genial  blaze,  and  was  watching  in  gloomy  silence  the 
flickering  light  coquetting  with  the  rafters  above  his  head, 
apparently  without  a  thought  of  his  companion,  who  leaned 
pensively  against  the  pictorial  tiles  in  the  chimney,  when  the 
door  was  suddenly  pushed  open,  and  two  persons  sprang  into 
the  centre  of  the  kitchen.  The  first  was  a  tall  savage,  nearly 
naked,  his  face  painted  with  colors  of  red  and  black,  a  snake- 
skin  bound  around  his  forehead,  a  tuft  of  coarse  plumes  on 
his  head,  and  tomahawk  in  hand  ;  the  other  was  a  female. 
She  cast  a  timid  glance  about  her  as  she  entered,  and  glided 
quietly  into  the  shadow  of  the  chimney,  as  though  shrinking 
from  the  bold  glare  of  the  light.  Not  so  the  man.  Recog- 
nizing the  patroon,  he  planted  himself  at  once  before  him  and 
unhesitatingly  claimed  his  protection.  They  had  come  from 
beyond  the  Tappaen,  he  said,  he  and  his  brother  warriors, 
with  their  women  and  children,  and  encamped  at  Pavonia ; 
but  the  Maquas,  their  enemies  from  fort  Orange,  had  come 
upon  them  in  the  night,  and  murdered  all  while  sleeping. 

"  No !  by  heaven,  Lickquequa,"  exclaimed  the  honest 
patroon,  "  you  shall  not  so  belie  the  Maquas.  The  fort  is  no 
place  for  a  skin  of  the  color  that  you  wear ;  you  have  run 
your  neck  into  the  trapper's  noose.  It  is  the  Swannekins 
themselves  that  have  murdered  your  warriors." 

The  Indian  laid  his  hand  upon  his  tomahawk,  and  his  eyes 
glittered. 


NIEUW    NEDERLANDTS.  113 

"  Do  you  understand  me  ?  Your  enemies  are  here — 
within  these  very  walls — they  will  send  you  to  a  better  hunt- 
ing-ground than  Wickquaesgeck." 

"  Lickquequa  will  take  a  scalp  with  him,"  said  the  Indian, 
with  a  grim  smile. 

"  Ay,  take  it ! "  answered  the  patroon,  lifting  a  mass  of 
grizzled  hair  from  his  forehead,  and  showing  a  tempting  line 
of  white  that  presented  quite  a  contrast  to  the  bronzed  com- 
plexion below,  "  take  it,  and  avenge  the  foul  wrong  you  have 
suffered  to-night." 

The  muscles  in  the  face  of  the  Indian  relaxed  just  suffi- 
ciently to  evince  his  admiration,  without  compromising  his 
reputation  for  dignified  indifference  ;  but  Lilier  had  too  little 
knowledge  of  Indian  character  to  read  the  emotion  correctly. 

"  You  are  mad,  De  Heer,"  he  exclaimed  earnestly ;  "  you 
never  consented  to  this  murder ;  you  are  the  Indian's  friend, 
and  will  get  this  man  in  safety  from  the  fort.  Come,  we  will 
convey  him  through  the  back  door,  and  along " 

"  We  will  convey  him  openly.  Lickquequa  is  my  neigh- 
bor, and  entitled  to  my  protection.  I  will  not  skulk  and 
creep  about  for  fear  of  Kieft  and  his  blood-hounds ;  I  will  go 
out  openly,  with  this  man  beside  me  ;  and,  if  any  one  attempts 
to  interfere,  I  will  shoot  him." 

The  Frenchman  saw  that  it  would  be  useless  to  dispute 
the  point,  for  De  Vries'  blood  was  heated ;  and  he  followed 
the  two  men  in  silence.  As  they  passed  out,  and  were  about 
closing  the  door,  the  woman  who  had  escaped  with  Lickque- 
qua, slid  silently  through  the  opening  and  crept  along  in  the 
shadow  cast  upon  the  ground  by  the  group  before  her.  The 
young  man  beckoned  her  to  draw  nearer,  for  it  was  prudent 
to  make  the  party  as  small  as  possible ;  and,  shrinkingly,  the 
woman  obeyed.  That  was  a  beautiful  face  which  raised 
itself  beaming  with  gratitude  to  Lilier's,  but  in  the  next 
moment  it  was  nearly  hidden  in  the  embroidered  mantle 
folded  over  her  bosom;  for  the  Indian  maiden  was  either 
very  modest  or  very  timid.  The  gate  was  unguarded,  and 
they  passed  on  without  a  challenge. 

VOL.  n.  10* 


114  TWO    NIGHTS    IN    THE 

Lilier's  sympathies  had  at  first  been  strongly  enlisted  in 
the  cause  of  humanity ;  and  now  that  cause  was  scarce 
likely  to  lose  anything  by  uniting  youth  and  beauty  with  it. 
There  was  a  deep  cast  of  romance  in  his  character,  and  this 
incident  had  sufficient  romantic  interest  in  it,  to  combine  with 
the  witching  hour  and  the  glittering  moonlight  in  giving  to 
his  thoughts  a  color  which  he  would  have  been  ashamed  to 
show  De  Vries.  Thus  it  was  that  his  manner  to  the  fugitive 
Indian  girl,  while  studiously  attentive,  yet  put  on  a  delicate 
reserve,  which  would  have  been  peculiarly  appropriate  had  an 
honorable  cavalier  suddenly  found  himself  the  escort  and  pro- 
tector of  one  of  the  fairest  dames  of  Europe.  Human  nature 
is  everywhere  the  same,  of  whatever  hue  the  cheek  may  be  ; 
and  understands  the  language  addressed  to  it,  though  the 
tongue  may  use  a  strange  jargon ;  but  it  was  difficult  to  dis- 
cover whether  the  courtly  manners  of  the  young  Frenchman 
were  in  this  instance  appreciated. 

When  they  had  crossed  a  corner  of  the  woods  and  set 
their  fugitives  safely  on  their  way  to  Tappaen,  De  Vries  pro- 
posed taking  leave  of  them  and  returning  to  the  fort. 

"  Go,"  said  Lickquequa,  coldly. 

The  maiden  raised  again  her  finely-sculptured  head,  and  as 
she  did  so,  a  bright  moonbeam  came  glancing  downwards, 
revealing  the  rich  complexion,  the  large,  mournful  eyes,  the 
finely-arched  brows,  and  the  luxurious  lips.  It  was  imme- 
diately lowered  again,  and  she  followed  in  the  track  of  Lick- 
quequa. 

•'  She  must  not  go  alone,  so  unprotected,"  exclaimed 
Lilier,  looking  at  De  Vries  for  approbation. 

The  patroon  smiled. 

"  She  is  a  ivoman,  and  the  Indian  takes  no  notice  of  her." 

"  She  does  not  want  his  notice,  nor  ours.  She  is  in  her 
own  palace  now,  and  is  growing  quite  the  queen.  Look  ! 
see  how  freely  and  proudly  she  steps.  She  does  not  crouch 
now,  and  would  laugh  at  the  very  word  protection.  See  !  her 
path  leads  away  from  Lickquequa's.  God  grant  that  she  has 
no  father's,  or  brother's,  or  lover's  death  to  avenge ;  for, 


NIEUW    NEDERLANDTS.  115 

Lilier,  it  is  proud  blood  that  flows  in  those  veins,  and,  if  she 
would,  she  might  light  a  train  with  it  that  Nieuw  Neder- 
landts  would  feel  to  its  centre.  I  know  by  her  dress  that  she 
is  the  daughter  of  one  of  their  sagamores." 

"  But  woman's  words  have  no  weight  in  the  council." 
"  Certainly  not.     These  people,  however,  have  such  broad 
ears  when  the  cry  is  for  vengeance,  that  a  word  whispered  in 
the  wigwam  may  call  into  action  a  thousand  tomahawks." 

Lilier  looked  after  the  retreating  figure  of  the  Indian  mai- 
den, and  thought  of  Zenobia ;  then  he  remembered  the 
glimpses  he  had  of  her  face,  and  he  Avalked  back  to  the  fort 
by  the  side  of  De  Vries  without  speaking  a  word. 

The  treachery  of  the  whites,  as  might  have  been  antici- 
pated, met  with  a  deadly  vengeance.  The  exasperated  sava- 
ges scoured  the  whole  country  from  Nieuw  Amsterdam 
nearly  to  fort  Orange ;  and  houses,  barns  and  haystacks 
made  merry  bonfires  for  them  in  the  dead  of  winter.  Grain 
and  cattle  were  destroyed ;  men  stripped  of  their  scalps  and 
left  bleeding  at  their  hearth-stones  ;  and  women  and  children 
dragged,  shrieking,  from  the  ruins  of  their  homes  and  the 
corses  of  the  slain,  to  encounter  cold,  fatigue,  and  not  unfre- 
quently  death,  with  their  unfeeling  captors.  In  this  state  of 
things,  De  Vries  applied  to  the  governor  for  soldiers  to  pro- 
tect his  estate,  but  received  only  a  promise. 

"  I  will  go  myself,"  said  the  indignant  patroon  to  his 
friend ;  "  one  arm  without  dishonor  is  worth  more  than  a 
score  of  these  paid  murderers ;  and  though  they  only  obeyed 
orders,  poor  fellows !  I  believe  an  honest  man's  hearth  is 
better  without  them.  Come  with  me,  Lilier,  in  God's  name, 
and  we  two  shall  be  enough  for  Vriesendael." 

A  long  and  unsatisfactory  conversation  with  the  governor 
delayed  the  departure  of  De  Vries  beyond  the  appointed  hour ; 
but,  at  last,  all  was  arranged,  and  the  two  friends  set  off  in  a 
little  boat  together.  The  sun  was  brightly  beautiful,  winter 
though  it  was.  The  trees,  all  decked  out  in  trappings  of  crys- 
tal, set  off  with  brilliants  of  every  hue,  leaned  over  the  bank 


116  TWO   NIGHTS   IN   THE 

to  see  themselves  in  the  mirror  below ;  and  pencils  of  light, 
seemingly  splintered  by  contact  with  the  cold  air,  scattered 
showers  of  scintillations  on  the  sheets  of  ice  that  bordered  the 
little  sea,  on  the  shivering  water,  and  the  snow-covered  shore. 
Evening  came  on,  and  the  boat,  notwithstanding  a  floating 
block  of  ice  that  now  and  then  threatened  to  upset  it,  shot  like 
a  winged  bird  over  the  crisp  water.  A  dip,  a  glimmer  of  sil- 
ver as  the  moonlight  came  to  kiss  the  uplifted  pinion,  a  broken 
chain  of  pearls  —  and  down  again  went  the  disappointed 
wing,  to  bear  up  with  it  the  same  shattered  treasures,  and 
again  and  again  to  seek  them,  till  that  little  boat,  with  its 
steadily  plying  oars,  became  a  struggling,  living  thing,  bear- 
ing within  it  a  restless  human  spirit.  On  sped  they  thus,  till, 
about  the  time  of  midnight's  coming,  they  shot  into  the  swifter 
current  formed  by  the  mingling  of  the  waters.  Rounding  a 
miniature  cape  covered  with  gigantic  trees,  they  came  sud- 
denly in  sight  of  Vriesendael. 

"  Good  God  ! "  burst  from  the  lips  of  the  patroon ;  and, 
leaping  from  the  boat,  he  dashed  through  the  water,  and 
sprang,  sword  in  hand,  upon  the  bank.  Lilier  was  scarce  a 
step  behind  him. 

"Hold,  De  Vries !  stay!  listen  —  listen  to  reason,  De 
Heer!" 

"  Reason  !  and  my  property  on  fire,  my  people  murdered, 
and  perhaps  my  own  family !  Curses  on  the  blood}  policy 
of  Wilhelm  Kieft!  It  is  his  own  hand  that  has  set  fire 
to  Vriesendael." 

A  fearful  conflagration  was  indeed  sweeping  over  the  little 
valley.  The  houses  of  the  tenants,  barns,  haystacks  —  every- 
thing combustible  was  now  in  a  broad  blaze ;  and,  with  the 
crackling  of  the  flames,  the  crash  of  falling  timbers,  and  the 
occasional  discharge  of  fire-arms,  mingled  the  triumphant  yell 
of  the  maddened  and  revengeful  savages.  The  first  impulse 
of  De  Vries  lasted  but  a  moment,  and  then  he  collected  all  the 
energies  of  his  powerful  mind,  and  looked  upon  the  scene  with 
the  eye  of  a  brave  man  accustomed  to  danger,  and  prepared 
to  meet  just  such  a  crisis  as  this.  The  fury  of  the  savages 


N1ETTW   NEDERLANDTS.  117 

was  now  all  directed  towards  his  own  dwelling,  a  strong 
block  house  with  embrasures  ;  and,  from  the  firing,  it  was 
evident  that  some  of  his  people  had  taken  refuge  there.  If 
this  could  be  reached,  under  his  direction  the  vengeance  of 
the  foe  might  be  baffled ;  and  to  reach  it  unobserved,  and 
effect  an  entrance,  became  now  the  all-important  object. 
Keeping  within  the  shadow  of  the  woods,  they  crept  along, 
nearer  and  nearer  the  glaring  light,  and  nearer  the  yelling 
savages,  treading  down  the  frozen  snow  and  snapping  the 
brittle  twigs  fearlessly ;  for  it  must  have  been  a  heavy  sound 
indeed  that  would  have  attracted  attention  at  that  terrible 
hour.  As  they  passed  a  jagged  rock,  casting  a  deep  shadow 
on  the  ground,  a  light  tread,  scarce  heavier  than  that  of  a 
squirrel,  attracted  the  attention  of  De  Vries  ;  and,  at  the  same 
moment,  he  felt  a  gentle  touch  on  his  shoulder. 

"  White  chief,  stay  !  no  —  no  go  !  Lickquequa  —  he  save  ; 
stay  —  stay ! " 

There  was  plenty  of  light  to  see  the  beautiful  face  of  the 
Indian  girl,  as  these  words  with  difficulty  broke  from  her 
lips ;  her  \varm,  dark  eye,  with  all  its  pleading  earnestness, 
turning  from  one  face  to  the  other  ;  timidity,  everything  but 
the  touching  interest  of  a  grateful  heart,  entirely  banished ; 
and  her  \vhole  countenance  eloquent  with  truth  and  nobleness 
of  purpose.  De  Vries  half  paused  to  answer  ;  but  as  he  did 
so,  a  shriek  rang  out  from  his  own  dwelling  —  a  woman's 
voice.  In  the  same  instant  a  glittering  tomahawk  glanced 
past  him ;  there  came  a  savage  yell,  and  two  dark  forms 
sprang  into  the  red  glare  cast  at  his  feet  by  the  burning  build- 
ings. He  heard  the  wild,  terrified  scream  of  the  Indian  girl, 
a  groan,  and  a  crackling  of  the  underbrush  as  of  something 
falling ;  and  then  with  two  or  three  bounds  he  left  the  whole 
group  far  behind  him.  That  other  shriek  !  —  the  voice  was 
dearly  familiar,  and  it  drowned,  for  the  moment,  every  thought 
of  the  mere  friend. 

The  tomahawk,  that  had  caught  the  eye  of  De  Vries,  struck 
the  temple  of  Lilier.  He  reeled,  clutched  with  both  hands  at 
the  vacant  air,  and  plunged  into  the  crusted  snow,  stunned 


118  TWO    NIGHTS    IN    THB 

and  bleeding.  In  a  moment  his  foes  were  upon  him  in  all 
their  savage  fury ;  but  the  heart  of  a  friend  is  quicker  and 
stronger  than  the  vengeful  hand  of  an  enemy,  even  though 
there  be  a  broadsword  in  it.  The  arms  of  the  grateful  Indian 
girl  were  thrown  about  him  —  a  beautiful  defence ;  and  her 
cheek,  crimsoned  with  his  blood,  rested  protectingly  upon  his 
forehead.  How  earnestly  simple  was  the  tale  she  told,  her 
soul-full  face  looking  up  from  the  hair  all  matted  with  the  red 
gore  !  And  how  eloquently  she  pleaded  for  her  saviour ! 
The  savages  paused,  with  their  hands  uplifted,  clutching  fast 
the  instruments  of  death ;  and  bestowing  a  single  glance  on 
the  girl,  turned  in  astonishment  towards  the  block-house. 
The  firing  had  entirely  ceased,  and  not  a  single  savage  yell 
was  to  be  heard.  In  his  own  opened  door  stood,  strongly 
relieved  by  the  full  light,  the  herculean  figure  of  the  hardy 
and  courageous  patroon ;  and  before  him,  within  arm's  reach, 
an  Indian,  seemingly  engaged  in  a  parley.  The  strange 
silence  also  arrested  the  attention  of  the  girl.  She  raised  her 
head,  and  a  cry  of  joy  broke  from  the  lips,  and  left  them 
parted  with  a  bright  smile. 

"  Go ! "  she  said  in  her  own  musical  tongue,  "  go !  it  is 
Lickquequa,  and  the  white  men  are  saved." 

She  was  right.  The  Indian,  whom  De  Vries  had  led  from 
the  fort  on  the  night  of  the  massacre,  had  represented  the 
patroon  as  a  friendly  chief,  who  loved  his  red  neighbors ;  and 
the  Indians  had  already  slung  their  bows  over  their  shoulders, 
and  lowered  their  tomahawks  by  their  sides.  The  two  sav- 
ages looked  again  on  the  scalp  of  the  wounded  man  greedily ; 
but  it  was  half-sheltered  by  the  beautiful  person  of  his  pro- 
tectress ;  and  they  turned  away  and  joined  silently  the  dark 
body  retreating  from  the  besieged  house. 
-As  soon  as  they  were  gone,  the  girl  bent  tenderly  over  her 
charge,  putting  her  cheek  close  down  to  his  lips,  to  see  if  she 
could  catch  a  breath  upon  it,  and  trying  to  win,  by  the  pressure 
of  her  slight  fingers,  a  single  answering  flutter  of  the  heart. 
It  came  at  last  —  a  light,  faint  tremor ;  and  radiant  was  the 
flash  of  joy  that  lighted  up  her  face,  radiant,  and  yet  half-sub- 


NIEUW   NEDERLANDTS.  119 

dued,  as  though  the  breath  of  a  smile  might  be  too  strong  for 
the  faltering  wing  of  the  half-reluctant  spirit  just  poising 
itself  upon  the  outer  verge  of  life.  Hastily  she  unbuckled  the 
sword  at  his  side,  slid  his  head  from  her  knees,  and  stole  up 
the  hill-side,  among  jagged  rocks  and  broken  wood  and 
crusted  snow,  till  her  practised  eye  recognized  the  spot  she 
sought.  Then  kneeling  down  and  digging  with  her  unwonted 
weapon  into  the  bank,  she  labored  patiently  until  she  reached 
the  ground.  It  was  covered  with  green  leaves ;  and  snatch- 
ing a  handful  hastily,  she  hurried  back  with  them  to  her 
charge.  Again  raising  his  head  to  her  bosom,  she  washed 
the  wound  with  the  soft  snow  gathered  from  beneath  the 
crust ;  and,  warming  the  leaves  between  her  hands,  laid  them 
gently  upon  it,  and  bound  them  with  her  own  girdle  of  wam- 
pum. Then  removing  the  mantle  from  her  shoulders,  she 
folded  it  softly  about  his ;  and  now  clasping  his  icy  hands, 
now  watching  the  uncertain  breath  that  seemed  every  moment 
ready  to  flit  from  his  lip,  she  bent  over  him  as  tenderly  as  a 
mother  over  the  cradle  of  her  first-born.  And  her  care  was 
rewarded ;  for,  long  before  De  Vries  could  leave  his  alarmed 
family  and  go  out  in  search  of  the  corse  of  his  friend,  the 
languid  eyes  of  the  awakened  Frenchman  had  turned  help- 
lessly to  the  dark,  tearful  ones  watching  his  slumbers  ;  and  he 
had  closed  them  again,  more  than  content  with  his  resting- 
place.  He  slept,  to  dream  of  that  same  beautiful  face ;  and 
she  looked  upon  his  closed  lids  and  dreamed  too  ;  such  dreams 
as  our  first  mother  must  have  had  when  she  opened  her  eyes 
on  Eden.  It  was  not  an  easy  thing  for  the  poor  girl  to  resign 
her  charge  when  the  white  men  came  and  took  him  from  her ; 
for  she  felt  as  though  she  had  a  claim  upon  that  life  which 
her  tenderness  had  won  back  to  earth  after  the  last  cord  was 
loosened  and  the  spirit's  wing  lifted  heavenwards. 

Two  centuries  have  passed,  and  the  colors  of  by-gone  events 
are  so  blinded  and  dimmed,  and  in  some  instances  glossed 
over  by  modern  falsehood,  that  little  more  than  the  crimson 
may  be  recognized.  The  heart  of  truth,  the  eye  of  love,  and 


120  TWO    NIGHTS    IN    THE    NIEUW    NEDERLANDTS. 

the  brow  of  beauty,  are  things  that  fade  from  the  earth,  to  write 
their  names  on  the  pages  of  heaven.  So  is  a  holy  lesson 
lost ;  for  though  truth  and  purity  yet  dwell  with  us,  there  is 
a  poison  in  the  breath  of  the  world  that  keeps  them  forever 
hidden.  Thus  two  beings  who  lived  long 

"  'Mid  trees  and  flowers  and  waterfalls, 

And  fountains  bubbling  from  the  moss, 
And  leaves  that  quiver  with  delight, 
As  from  their  shade  the  warbler  calls," 

who  lived  and  loved  in  a  luxurious  wilderness,  and  passed  in 
the  golden  autumn  of  their  days,  like  the  beautiful,  rich  things 
about  them,  can  find  no  historian.  Let  their  memories  rest 
with  them  —  the  halo  has  fallen  on  some  heart.  Yet  would 
any  look  upon  a  quiet,  simple  picture,  let  them  spend  a  day 
among  the  Helderburgs.  I  have  seen  there  a  doting  old  lady, 
who  loves  to  talk  of  the  flowery  dell  where  she  was  born,  and 
the  happy  generations  that  have  moved  among  those  flowers. 
If  you  could  induce  her  to  pass  down  the  river  with  you,  she 
would  point  you  to  an  ancient  tree,  beneath  whose  young 
shade  a  French  Huguenot,  of  high  birth  and  higher  virtues, 
plighted  his  faith  to  the  daughter  of  a  proud  Sagamore  living 
among  the  hills.  And  the  old  lady  loves  well  to  boast  of  the 
French  and  Indian  blood  in  her  veins. 


121 


LUCY   BUTTON. 

IT  was  an  October  morning,  warm  and  sunny,  but  with 
even  its  sunshine  subdued  into  a  mournful  softness,  and  its 
gorgeous  drapery  chastened  by  a  touch  of  the  dreamy  atmos- 
phere into  a  sympathy  with  sorrow.  And  there  was  a  sor- 
rowing one  who  needed  sympathy  on  that  still,  holy  morning 
—  the  sympathy  of  the  great  Heart  which  beats  in  Nature's 
bosom — for  she  could  hope  no  other.  Poor  Lucy  Dutton  ! 

There  was  a  funeral  that  morning — a  stranger  would  have 
judged  by  the  gathering  that  the  great  man  of  the  village  was 
dead,  and  all  that  crowd  had  come  out  to  do  his  ashes  honor 
— but  it  was  not  so.  Yet  the  little,  old-fashioned  church  was 
filled  to  overflowing.  Some  there  were  that  turned  their  eyes 
devoutly  to  the  holy  man  that  occupied  the  sacred  desk,  receiv- 
ing from  his  lips  the  words  of  life ;  some  looked  upon  the 
little  coffin  that  stood,  covered  with  its  black  pall,  upon  a  table 
directly  below  him,  and  perhaps  thought  of  their  own  mortal- 
ity, or  that  of  their  bright  little  ones  ;  while  many,  very  many, 
gazed  with  cold  curiosity  at  the  solitary  mourner  occupying 
the  front  pew.  This  was  a  young  creature,  in  the  very  spring- 
time of  life, — a  frail,  erring  being,  whose  only  hope  was  in  Him 
who  said,  "  Neither  do  I  condemn  thee — go,  and  sin  no  more." 
There  was  a  weight  of  shame  upon  her  head,  and  woe  upon 
her  heart,  that  together  made  the  bereaved  young  mother  cower 
almost  to  the  earth  before  the  prying  eyes  that  came  to  look 
upon  her  in  her  distressing  humiliation.  Oh  !  it  was  a  piti- 
ful sight !  that  crushed,  helpless  creature's  agony. 

But  the  year  before,  and  this  same  lone  mourner  was  con- 
sidered a  sweet,  beautiful  child,  whom  everybody  was  bound 
to  protect  and  love ;  because,  but  that  she  was  the  pet  lamb 
of  a  doting  old  woman,  she  was  without  friend  and  protector. 

VOL.  u.  11 


122  LUCY   DTTTTON. 

Lucy  Dutton  was  the  last  blossom  on  a  tree  which  had  boasted 
many  fair  ones.  When  the  grave  opened  to  one  after  another 
of  that  doomed  family,  till  none  but  this  bright,  beautiful  bud 
was  left,  she  became  the  all  in  all,  and  with  the  doting  affec- 
tion of  age  was  she  cherished.  When  poverty  came  to  Granny 
Dutton's  threshold,  she  drew  her  one  priceless  jewel  to  her 
heart,  and  laughed  at  poverty.  When  sorrows  of  every  kind 
compassed  her  about,  and  the  sun  went  down  in  her  heaven 
of  hope,  another  rose  in  a  holier  heaven  of  love ;  and  Lucy 
Dutton  was  this  fountain  of  love-born  light.  The  old  lady 
and  her  pretty  darling  occupied  a  small,  neat  cottage,  at  the 
foot  of  the  hill,  with  a  garden  attached  to  it,  in  which  the  child 
flitted  all  day  long,  like  a  glad  spirit  among  the  flowers.  And, 
next  to  her  child-idol,  the  simple-hearted  old  lady  loved  those 
flowers,  with  a  love  which  pure  natures  ever  bear  to  the  beau- 
tiful. It  was  by  these,  and  the  fruit  produced  by  the  little 
garden,  that  the  twain  lived.  Many  a  fine  carriage  drew  up 
before  the  door  of  the  humble  cottage,  and  bright  ladies  and 
dashing  gentlemen  sauntered  beneath  the  shade,  while  the 
rosy  fingers  of  Lucy  adjusted  bouquets  for  them,  her  bright 
lips  wreathed  with  smiles,  and  her  sunny  eye  turning  to  her 
grandmother  at  the  placing  of  every  stem,  as  though  for  appro- 
bation of  her  taste.  Not  a  child  in  all  the  neigborhood  was 
so  happy  as  Lucy.  Not  a  child  in  all  the  neighborhood  was 
so  beautiful,  so  gentle,  and  so  good.  And  nobody  ever  thought 
of  her  as  anything  but  a  child.  Though  she  grew  to  the 
height  of  her  tallest  geranium,  and  her  form  assumed  womanly 
proportions,  nobody,  not  even  the  rustic  beaux  around  her, 
thought  of  her  as  anything  but  a  child.  Lucy  was  so  artless, 
and  loved  her  dear  old  grandmother  so  truly,  that  the  two 
were  somehow  connected  in  people's  minds,  and  it  seemed  as 
impossible  that  the  girl  should  grow  older,  as  that  the  old  lady 
should  grow  younger. 

Lucy  was  just  booked  for  fifteen,  with  the  seal  of  innocence 
upon  her  heart,  and  a  rose-leaf  on  her  cheek,  when  "  the 
Herman  property,"  a  fine  summer  residence  that  had  been  for 
years  unoccupied,  was  purchased  by  a  widow  lady  from  the 


LUCY   DUTTON.  123 

metropolis.  She  came  to  Alderbrook  early  in  the  spring, 
accompanied  by  her  only  son,  to  visit  her  new  possessions, 
and  finding  the  spot  exceedingly  pleasant,  she  determined  to 
remain  there.  And  so  Lucy  met  the  young  metropolitan; 
and  Lucy  was  beautiful,  and  trusting,  and  thoughtless ;  and 
he  was  gay,  selfish,  and  profligate.  Needs  the  story  to  be 
told? 

When  the  Howards  went  away,  Lucy  awoke  from  her 
dream.  She  looked  about  her,  and  upon  herself,  with  the 
veil  taken  from  her  eyes ;  and  then  she  turned  from  all  she 
had  ever  loved ;  for,  in  the  breaking  up  of  those  dreams,  was 
broken  poor  Lucy's  heart. 

Nay,  censor,  Lucy  was  a  child — consider  how  very  young, 
how  very  untaught — oh  !  her  innocence  was  no  match  for 
the  sophistry  of  a  gay  city  youth  !  And  young  Howard  stole 
her  unthinking  heart  the  first  day  he  looked  in  to  purchase  a 
bouquet.  Poor,  poor  Lucy ! 

Before  the  autumn  leaves  fell,  Granny  Button's  bright  pet 
knelt  in  her  little  chamber,  and  upon  her  mother's  grave,  and 
down  by  the  river-side,  where  she  had  last,  met  Justin  Howard, 
and  prayed  for  death.  Sweet,  joyous  Lucy  Dutton,  asking 
to  lay  her  bright  head  in  the  grave  !  Spring  came,  and  shame 
was  stamped  upon  the  cottage  at  the  foot  of  the  hill.  Lucy 
bowed  her  head  upon  her  bosom,  and  refused  to  look  upon  any- 
thing but  her  baby ;  and  the  old  lady  shrunk,  like  a  shrivelled 
leaf,  before  this  last  and  greatest  of  her  troubles.  The  neigh- 
borhood had  its  usual  gossip.  There  were  taunts,  and  sneers, 
and  coarse  jests,  and  remarks  severely  true;  but  only  a  little, 
a  very  little,  pity.  Lucy  bore  all  this  well,  for  she  knew  that 
it  was  deserved ;  but  she  had  worse  than  this  to  bear.  Every 
day  she  knelt  by  the  bed  of  the  one  being  who  had  doted  upon 
her  from  infancy,  and  begged  her  blessing,  but  in  vain. 

"  Oh  !  that  I  had  laid  you  in  the  coffin,  with  your  dead 
mother,  when  all  around  me  said  that  the  breath  had  passed 
from  you  !"  was  the  unvarying  reply  ;  "  then  my  gray  hairs 
might  have  gone  down  to  the  grave  without  dishonor  from  the 


124  LtlCT   BUTTON. 

child  that  I  took  from  the  gate  of  death,  and  bore  for  years 
upon  my  bosom.  Would  you  had  died,  Lucy  ! " 

And  Lucy  would  turn  away  her  head,  and,  in  the  bitterness 
of  her  heart,  echo,  "  Ay  !  would  that  I  had  died ! "  Then 
she  would  take  her  baby  in  her  arms,  and,  while  the  scalding 
tears  bathed  its  unconscious  face,  pray  God  to  forgive  the 
wicked  wish,  and  preserve  her  life  for  the  sake  of  this  sinless 
heir  to  shame.  And  sometimes  Lucy  would  smile — not  that 
calm,  holy  smile  which  usually  lingers  about  an  infant's  cradle, 
but  a  faint,  sicklied  play  of  the  love-light  within,  as  though 
the  mother's  fond  heart  were  ashamed  of  its  own  throbbings. 
But,  before  the  autumn  passed,  Lucy  Dutton  was  fearfully 
stricken.  Death  came  !  She  laid  her  last  comfort  from  her 
bosom  into  the  coffin,  and  they  were  now  bearing  it  to  the 
grave, — she,  the  only  mourner.  It  mattered  but  little  that 
the  grandmother's  forgiveness  and  blessing  came  now ;  Lucy 
scarce  knew  the  difference  between  these  words  and  those  last 
spoken  ;  and  most  earnestly  did  she  answer,  "  Would,  would 
that  I  had  died  ! "  Poor,  poor  Lucy  ! 

She  sat  all  through  the  sermon,  and  the  singing,  and  the 
prayer,  with  her  head  bowed  upon  the  side  of  the  pew ;  and 
when  at  last  they  bore  the  coffin  to  the  door,  and  the  congre- 
gation began  to  move  forward,  she  did  not  raise  it  until  the 
kind  clergyman  came  and  led  her  out  to  take  a  last  look  at 
her  dead  boy.  Then  she  laid  her  thin,  pale  face  against  his 
within  the  coffin,  and  sobbed  aloud.  And  now  some  began 
to  pity  the  stricken  girl,  and  whisper  to  their  neighbors  that 
she  was  more  sinned  against  than  sinning.  Still  none  came 
forward  to  whisper  the  little  word  which  might  have  brought 
healing,  but  the  holy  man  whose  duty  it  was.  He  took  her 
almost  forcibly  from  the  infant  clay,  and  strove  to  calm  her, 
while  careless  eyes  came  to  look  upon  that  dearer  to  her  than 
her  own  heart's  blood.  Finally,  curiosity  was  satisfied ;  they 
closed  the  coffin,  screwed  down  the  lid,  spread  the  black  cloth 
over  it,  and  the  procession  began  to  form.  Minister  Green 
left  the  side  of  the  mourner,  and  took  his  station  in  advance, 
accompanied  by  some  half  dozen  others  ;  then  four  men  fol- 


LUCY    DUTTON.  125 

lowed, 'bearing  the  light  coffin  in  their  hands,  and  all  eyes 
were  turned  upon  the  mourner.  She  did  not  move. 

"  Pass  on,  madam,"  said  Squire  Field,  who  always  acted 
the  part  of  marshal  on  such  occasions ;  and,  though  little 
given  to  the  weakness  of  feeling,  he  now  softened  his  voice 
as  much  as  it  would  bear  softening.  "  This  way — right  be- 
hind the — the — pass  on!" 

Lucy  hesitated  a  moment,  and  many  a  generous  one  longed 
to  step  forward  and  give  her  an  arm;  but  selfish  prudence  for- 
bade. One  bright  girl,  who  had  been  Lucy's  playmate  from 
the  cradle,  but  had  not  seen  her  face  for  many  months,  drew 
impulsively  towards  her ;  but  she  met  a  reproving  eye  from 
the  crowd,  and  only  whispering,  "  I  do  pity  you,  Lucy  ! "  she 
shrunk  back,  and  sobbed  almost  as  loud  as  her  erring  friend. 
Lucy  started  at  the  words,  and,  gazing  wildly  round  her,  tot- 
tered on  after  the  coffin. 

Loud,  and  slow,  and  fearfully  solemn,  stroke  after  stroke, 
the  old  church-bell  doled  forth  its  tale;  and  slowly  and 
solemnly  the  crowd  moved  on  with  a  measured  tread,  though 
there  was  many  a  careless  eye  and  many  a  smiling  lip,  turn- 
ing to  other  eyes  and  other  lips,  with  something  like  a  jest 
between  them.  On  moved  the  crowd  after  the  mourner; 
while  she,  with  irregular,  labored  step,  her  arms  crossed  on 
her  bosom,  and  her  head  bent  to  the  same  resting-place,  just 
kept  pace  with  the  body  of  her  dead  boy.  Winding  through 
the  opened  gate  into  the  church-yard,  they  went  trailing  slow- 
ly through  the  long,  dead  grass,  while  some  of  the  children 
crept  slily  from  the  procession,  to  pick  up  the  tufts  of  scarlet 
and  yellow  leaves,  which  made  this  place  of  graves  strangely 
gay ;  and  several  young  people  wandered  off,  arm  in  arm, 
pausing  as  they  went,  to  read  the  rude  inscriptions  lettered  on 
the  stones.  On  went  the  procession,  away  to  the  farthermost 
corner,  where  slept  the  stranger  and  the  vagabond.  Here  a 
little  grave  had  been  dug,  and  the  coffin  was  now  set  down 
beside  it,  while  the  long  procession  circled  slowly  round. 
Several  went  up  and  looked  into  the  dark,  damp  cradle  of  the 
dead  child ;  one  observed  to  his  neighbor  that  it  was  very 

VOL.  u.         11* 


126  LUCY    DUTTO.N. 

shallow ;  and  another  said  that  Tom  Jones  always  slighted  his 
work  when  there  was  nobody  to  see  to  it ;  anyhow,  it  was  not 
much  matter,  the  child  would  stay  buried ;  and  another  let 
drop  a  jest,  a  hard,  but  not  very  witty  one,  though  it  was  fol- 
lowed by  a  smothered  laugh.  All  this  passed  quietly ;  noth- 
ing was  spoken  above  a  low  murmur ;  but  Lucy  heard  it  all ; 
and,  as  she  heard  and  remembered,  what  a  repulsive  thing 
seemed  to  her  the  human  heart !  Poor  Lucy  Dutton  ! 

Minister  Green  stood  at  the  head  of  the  grave  and  said  a 
prayer,  while  Lucy  leaned  against  a  sickly-looking  tree,  alone, 
and  pressed  her  cold  hands  against  her  temples,  and  wondered 
if  she  should  ever  pray  again — if  God  would  hear  her  if  she 
should.  Then  they  laid  the  little  coffin  upon  ropes,  and 
gently  lowered  it.  The  grave  was  too  short,  or  the  men  were 
careless,  for  there  was  a  harsh  grating  against  the  hard  earth, 
which  made  Lucy  start  and  extend  her  arms ;  but  she  instant- 
ly recollected  herself,  and,  clasping  her  hands  tightly  over  her 
mouth,  lest  her  agony  should  make  itself  heard,  she  tried  to 
stand  calmly.  Then  a  handful  of  straw  was  thrown  upon  the 
coffin,  and  immediately  a  shovelful  of  earth  followed.  Oh ! 
that  first  sinking  of  the  cold  clod  upon  the  bosom  we  have 
loved !  What  a  fearful,  shivering  sensation,  does  it  send  to 
the  heart  and  along  the  veins !  And  then  the  benumbing 
faintness  which  follows,  as  though  our  own  breath  were  strug- 
gling up  through  that  damp  covering  of  earth  !  Lucy  gasped 
and  staggered,  and  then  she  twined  her  arm  about  the  body 
of  the  little  tree,  and  laid  her  cheek  against  its  rough  bark, 
and  strove  hard  to  keep  herself  from  falling. 

Some  thought  the  men  were  very  long  in  filling  up  the 
grave,  but  Lucy  thought  nothing  about  it.  She  did  not,  after 
that  first  shovelful,  hear  the  earth  as  it  fell ;  and  when,  after 
all  was  done  and  the  sods  of  withered  grass  had  been  laid  on, 
Minister  Green  came  to  tell  her,  she  did  not  hear  his  voice. 
When  she  did,  she  pushed  back  the  hair  from  her  hollowed 
temples,  looked  vacantly  into  his  face,  and  shook  her  head. 
Others  came  up  to  her — a  good-natured  man  who  had  been 
kind  to  her  grandmother ;  then  the  deacon's  wife,  followed  by 


LUCY    DUTTON.  127 

two  or  three  other  women ;  but  Lucy  only  smiled  and  shook 
her  head.  Glances  full  of  troubled  mystery  passed  from  one 
to  another ;  there  was  an  alarmed  look  on  many  faces,  which 
those  more  distant  seemed  to  comprehend;  and  still  others 
came  to  speak  to  Lucy.  It  was  useless — she  could  find  no 
meaning  in  their  words — the  star  of  intellect  had  gone  out — 
the  temple  was  darkened.  Poor,  poor  Lucy  Dutton  ! 

They  bore  her  home — for  she  was  passive  and  helpless — 
home  to  the  sick  old  grandmother,  who  laid  her  withered 
hand  on  those  bright  locks,  and  kissed  the  cold  cheek,  and 
took  her  to  her  bosom,  as  though  she  had  been  an  infant. 
And  Lucy  smiled,  and  talked  of  playing  by  the  brook,  and 
chasing  the  runaway  bees,  and  of  toys  for  her  baby -house, 
and  wondered  why  they  were  all  weeping,  particularly  dear 
grandmamma,  who  ought  to  be  so  happy.  But  this  lasted 
only  a  few  days,  and  then  another  grave  was  made,  and  yet 
another,  in  the  poor's  corner ;  and  the  grandmother  and  her 
shattered  idol  slept  together.  The  grave  is  a  blessed  couch 
and  Dillow  to  the  wretched.  Rest  thee  there,  poor  Lucy ! 


123 


MYSTERY. 

LIFE  is  all  a  mystery.  The  drawing  of  the  breath,  the 
beating  of  the  pulse,  the  flowing  of  the  blood,  none  can  com- 
prehend. We  know  that  we  are  sentient  beings,  gifted  with 
strange  powers,  both  intellectual  and  physical;  capable  of  act- 
ing, thinking,  feeling,  comparing,  reasoning,  and  judging; 
but  we  do  not  know  by  what  means  we  perform  these  differ- 
ent functions,  not  even  so  much  as  to  comprehend  how  the 
simplest  thought  is  originated.  The  mind  of  an  idiot — of 
one  of  the  lower  animals  even — is  a  study  too  deep  for  us. 
"  The  goings  forth  of  the  wind,"  the  "  balancing  of  the  clouds," 
the  living  leaf  bursting  from  the  dead  brown  stem,  all  pro- 
cesses of  nature  however  common  or  simple,  are  beyond  the 
grasp  of  human  intellect.  Each  of  us  is  a  mystery  to  self 
and  to  the  friends  that  look  upon  us.  We  raise  an  arm,  and 
we  know  that  in  that  simple  movement  a  thousand  little 
assistants  are  required ;  but  we  do  not  fully  understand  the 
philosophy  of  their  application ;  and  we  are  totally  ignorant 
of  the  grand  principle,  without  which  they  are  cold,  unfeeling 
clay.  Our  friends,  too,  are  complete  mysteries  to  us.  They 
are  always  acting  as  we  were  sure  they  would  not ;  and  they 
move  about  complete  embodiments  of  mystery ;  with  hearts 
almost  wholly  unexplored,  heads  full  of  strange  theories,  and 
natures  subject  to  incomprehensible  impulses  and  caprices. 
Within,  without,  around,  we  can  comprehend  nothing ;  we 
cannot  solve  even  the  simplest  thesis  of  nature,  whether  writ- 
ten on  the  human  constitution,  or  this  earth  builded  by  the 
great  Architect  for  our  use.  The  past  to  us  is  chaos ;  the 
present  is  a  waking  dream,  in  which  "  seeing  we  see  not,  and 
hearing  we  hear  not ;"  and  the  future  is  wrapped  in  the  deep- 
est, the  most  impenetrable  obscurity.  We  know  neither  how 


MYSTERY.  129 

nor  for  \yhat  purpose  we  exist ;  nor  what  is  to  be  the  destiny 
of  that  principle  within  us  which  every  heart-throb  proclaims 
to  be  eternal.  When  we  pause  to  think,  our  own  shadows 
may  well  alarm  us ;  and  when  we  turn  our  dim,  weak  eyes 
on  our  own  ignorance,  even  to  our  partial  selves  so  palpable, 
we  shall  not  dare  to  sneer  at  the  wildest  vagary  that  the  hu- 
man mind  has  ever  engendered.  Sneer !  why,  what  know 
we,  poor,  puny,  imbecile  creatures  that  we  are  !  of  truth  or 
falsehood,  save  that  moral  truth  which  stamps  us  the  offspring 
of  the  Eternal;  that  unswerving  trust  which  is  our  only 
safety — our  anchor  while  drifting  on  these  dark,  unknown 
waters  ?  There  is  none  to  solve  the  deep  mystery  of  the  things 
about  us ;  but  we  feel  in  the  darkness  the  clasp  of  a  strong 
Hand.  Oh,  may  we  never  strive  to  cast  that  Hand  from  us  ! 
In  the  far,  far  distance  burns  one  Star.  Oh,  may  we  never  raise 
a  cloud  between  its  light  and  our  bewildered  eyes !  May  we 
never,  never  forget,  in  the  midst  of  the  mystery  by  which  we 
are  encompassed,  that  "  we  are  not  our  own,"  that  we  are  not 
gifted  with  the  power  of  guiding  ourselves  ;  and  may  we 
yield  the  trust  of  childhood  to  the  sure  foot,  the  strong  arm, 
and  the  all-seeing  eye  of  Him  who  made  us  what  we  are, 
and  is  leading  us  to  the  place  where  we  may  learn  what  we 
have  been  and  shall  be. 


130 


THE    PRIEST'S    SOLILOQUY. 

AN    EXTRACT. 

IT  is  even  so,  thought  the  good  old  man,  as  the  door  closed 
behind  the  misguided  misanthrope ;  this  is  a  beautiful  world 
of  ours,  but  it  is  the  gilded  cage  of  many  a  fluttering  spirit 
that,  nevertheless,  would  shrink  from  freedom  if  it  were 
offered.  Keyling  is  miserable,  more  miserable  than  the  poor 
wretch  crouching  amid  rags,  and  filth,  and  loathsomeness, 
(for  such  suffering  can  bear  no  comparison  with  mental  ago- 
ny,) and  yet  he  knows  not  why.  What  matters  it  to  him 
that  the  earth  is  green,  and  the  heavens  surpassingly  magnifi- 
cent ?  He  knows  that  the  impress  of  his  foot  will  ere  long 
disappear  from  the  one,  and  his  eye  close  upon  the  other. 
He  knows  that  the  flowers  will  bloom,  the  birds  sing ;  that 
summer  will  flush  the  fields,  and  winter  bring  in  turn  its 
peculiar  attractions,  when  his  heart  is  pulseless  and  his  tongue 
mute ;  but  he  does  not  know  that  in  the  dissevering  of  the  sil- 
ver cord  is  gained  the  freedom  for  which  the  spirit  pants.  This 
world  is  too  narrow  for  his  soul  to  expand  in,  and  he  feels 
cramped  and  chained  ;  yet,  if  the  door  of  his  cage  were  flung 
open,  he  would  tremble  at  sight  of  the  unknown  space  beyond, 
and  would  not  venture  out,  but  cling  to  the  gilded  wires  until 
torn  away  by  the  resistless  hand  of  death.  Earth  never  sat- 
isfied an  immortal  mind  ;  the  "  living  soul,"  which  is  nothing 
less  than  the  breathing  of  Deity  himself,  can  be  satisfied  but 
with  infinity — infinity  of  life,  action,  and  knowledge.  Its 
own  feeble  glimmer  is  enough  for  the  fire-fly ;  and  its  wing 
and  voice,  with  the  free  heavens  and  beautiful  earth,  for  the 
bird ;  they  were  formed  by  the  Almighty's  hand,  but  their 
life  is  not  an  emanation  of  his  life,  and  their  little  spirits  "  go 
downward  to  the  earth."  But  what  can  satisfy  the  deathless 


THE  PRIEST'S  SOLILOQUY.  131 

soul  immured  in  a  clay  prison,  with  but  clouded  views  of  the 
finite  beauties  around  it,  and  wholly  unconscious  of  its  divine 
origin  and  final  destiny  ?  No  wonder  Keyling  is  miserable  ; 
for  he  is  blinder  than  the  untutored  savage  who  "  sees  God 
in  clouds  and  hears  him  in  the  wind."  For  years  he  has 
been  struggling  for  a  meteor ;  while  it  receded,  he  never 
paused  or  wearied ;  but,  when  his  hand  closed  over  it  and  he 
grasped  a  shadow,  the  truth  dawned  upon  his  spirit ;  and,  in 
the  bitterness  of  its  first  perception,  he  cursed  himself  and 
cursed  his  destiny.  He  hates  the  world,  and  himself  and 
mankind,  and  talks  madly  of  the  death-damps,  the  grave,  and 
the  slimy  earth-worm,  as  though  superior  to  their  horrors ; 
but  yet  he  is  in  love  with  life,  as  much  as  the  veriest  devotee 
of  pleasure  in  existence.  It  is  this  panting  for  immortality, 
this  longing  for  a  wider  range,  that  makes  him  sometimes 
imagine,  in  his  impatience,  that  he  is  anxious  to  lie  down  to 
his  eternal  rest  and  never  wake.  If  his  spirit  could  but 
understand  its  heavenward  destiny,  if  he  would  learn  to  look 
beyond  these  narrow  boundaries,  if,  in  despising  the  worth- 
less, he  would  properly  estimate  the  high  and  imperishable, 
poor  Keyling  would  find  that  even  on  earth  there  are  inex- 
haustible sources  of  happiness.  Alas  for  the  weakness  of 
human  nature  !  What  a  very  wreck  a  man  becomes  when 
left  to  his  own  blindness  and  folly !  The  loftier  the  intellect, 
the  higher  its  aspirations,  and  the  more  comprehensive  its 
faculties,  the  lower  does  it  descend  in  darkness,  if  the  torch 
of  religion  has  never  been  lighted  within.  It  is  misery  to 
feel  the  soul  capable  of  infinite  expansion,  and  allow  it  a 
range  no  wider  than  this  fading,  ever-changing  earth ;  to  taste 
the  bliss  of  life,  mingled  with  the  bitter  draught  of  death ;  to 
love  the  high  and  holy,  and  never  look  toward  the  fountain 
of  holiness  —  deep,  deep,  and  mingling  in  its  pure  tide  the 
richness  of  all  wisdom  and  knowledge.  Oh,  how  depressing 
must  be  the  loneliness  of  such  souls !  How  awful  the  deso- 
lation !  Too  high  for  earth  and  knowing  naught  of  heaven ! 
Even  the  good  in  their  natures  is  perverted,  and  adds  to  the 
chaos  of  darkness  within.  When  they  see  the  strong  oppress 


132  THE  PHIEST'S  SOLILOQUY. 

the  weak,  vice  triumph  over  virtue,  innocence  borne  down  by 
care  and  poverty,  and  guilt  elevated  to  a  throne,  they  say 
this  is  enough  to  know  of  Him  who  holds  the  reins  of  such 
a  government ;  and,  in  their  folly,  deem  themselves  more 
merciful  than  the  Father  of  mercies.  Making  this  world  the 
theatre  of  life,  and  the  years  of  man  its  sum,  they  fix  upon 
this  inconceivably  small  point  in  comparison  with  the  whole ; 
and,  from  such  a  limited  view,  dare  to  tax  the  Ruler  of  the 
universe  with  injustice.  Unable  to  comprehend  the  policy 
of  the  divine  government,  and  misapprehending  the  object 
and  tendency  of  earthly  suffering,  they  lose  themselves  in  the 
mazes  of  sophistry,  and  become  entangled  in  the  net  their  own 
hands  have  spread. 

Poor  Keyling !  he  has  drunk  of  the  poisonous  tide  of  infi- 
delity, and  every  thought  is  contaminated  the  moment  it 
springs  up  into  the  heart.  This  gives  its  coloring  to  the 
earth  and  sky,  to  life  and  death.  It  breaks  the  chain  that 
binds  the  world  of  nature  to  its  Creator,  dissolves  the  strong- 
est fascination  of  the  beautiful  things  around  us,  and  renders 
meaningless  the  lessons  traced  by  the  finger  of  God  upon 
everything  he  has  made.  It  removes  the  prop  from  the  bend- 
ing reed,  and  the  sunlight  from  the  heart ;  it  binds  down  the 
wing  of  hope,  and  turns  the  upraised  eye  earthward ;  it  offers 
only  "  the  worm,  the  canker,  and  the  grief,"  and  points  the 
fluttering  soul  to  a  grave  of  darkness  and  oblivion. 


133 


AUNT    ALICE. 

To  people  who  look  on  one  side  of  Aunt  Alice's  character, 
she  appears  a  saint ;  sinless  as  those  who  have  gone  home  to 
heaven ;  a  ministering  angel  of  light.  To  people  who  look 
on  the  reverse  of  the  picture,  and  see  spots  of  this  shining 
through,  all  distorted  by  the  unhappy  medium,  she  is  a 
miserable,  canting  hypocrite.  Both  are  wrong ;  Aunt  Alice 
is  neither,  though  much  nearer  saintship.  A  third  class  of 
people,  having  a  wholesome  contempt  for  extremes,  and 
intending  to  be  very  generous  in  their  estimate,  call  Aunt 
Alice  a  singular  character;  and,  moreover,  affirm  that  she 
loves  to  be  singular,  and  pursues  her  somewhat  eccentric 
course  more  for  the  sake  of  attracting  attention  and  exciting 
remark,  than  from  a  love  of  it.  They,  too,  are  wide  of  the 
mark.  That  Aunt  Alice  performs  a  vast  amount  of  good  is 
not  to  be  denied ;  and  that  she  goes  about,  her  left  hand  often 
destroying  her  right  hand's  work,  is  equally  certain. 

Aunt  Alice  is  a  widow ;  and,  all  her  children  being  mar- 
ried, she  has  nothing  to  detain  her  from  what  she  considers 
her  duties.  Is  there  a  sick  bed  in  all  the  neighborhood,  she 
is  there.  Her  own  hand  administers  the  cordial ;  her  own 
bosom  supports  the  sufferer's  head  ;  her  own  lips  whisper  con- 
solation, and  breathe  balm  upon  the  wounded  spirit.  Then, 
Aunt  Alice  is  a  ministering  angel ;  and,  to  see  her  untiring 
devotion,  her  ready  self-sacrifice,  and  her  humble  piety>  you 
would  wonder  that  she  was  left  upon  the  earth  where  she  had 
not  a  sister  spirit.  She  holds  the  dying  infant  in  her  arms, 
receives  its  last  sigh,  wraps  it  in  its  little  shroud,  and  lays  it  in 
the  coffin.  Then  she  turns  to  the  bereaved  mother,  and  tells 
her  that  her  cherished  bud  is  only  transplanted  to  be  better 
watched  over  and  cared  for ;  and  Aunt  Alice  never  goes  away 
until  she  sees  a  clear  light  breaking  through  the  tears  in  tho 

VOL.  n.  12 


134  AUNT    ALICE. 

mourner's  eye,  and  knows  that  the  stricken  spirit  has  learned 
to  love  the  Hand  that  but  bore  its  treasure  before  it  to  Para 
disc.  But  it  is  only  to  the  poor  —  the  wretchedly,  miserably 
poor  —  that  Aunt  Alice  goes  thus.  It  is  only  to  them  that  her 
hand  is  extended,  and  her  purse  and  heart  opened.  The  rich 
have  many  friends  ;  she  knows  they  do  not  need  her,  and  she 
cannot  waste  her  precious  time  upon  mere  civilities.  So 
deeply  is  this  impressed  upon  the  mind  of  Aunt  Alice,  that 
she  too  often  neglects  the  lesser  charities  of  life  —  the  ready 
smile,  the  encouraging  word,  and  the  kindly  glance,  so 
expressive  of  sympathetic  interest  —  and  thus  incurs  distrust, 
and  builds  up  a  high  wall  for  her  own  influence  to  pass  over 
before  it  can  reach  the  heart  of  the  worldling.  Moreover,  she 
has  seen  so  much  of  real  suffering  —  that  which  tears  the 
heart,  shrivels  up  the  muscles,  and  withers  the  spirit  within 
the  bosom  —  that  the  sorrow  which  cannot  be  traced  back  to  a 
cause,  and  an  adequate  one,  (some  real,  palpable  cause,  whose 
length,  breadth,  and  entire  bearing  she  can  measure,)  meets 
no  sympathy  from  her.  She  feels  a  contempt  for  those  minor 
ills  born  of  delicacy  and  nursed  in  the  lap  of  luxury.  She 
does  not  know  how  deeply  the  cankering  iron  may  eat  into 
the  spirit,  when  she  cannot  see  it  protruding  beyond ;  she  does 
not  know  that  the  Angel  of  Woe  has  a  seat  which  he  same- 
times  occupies  by  every  hearth-stone,  and  that  his  visitation  is 
always  heaviest  when  he  comes  disguised.  So  Aunt  Alice 
never  pities  those  who  cannot  write  down  some  fearful  calam- 
ity ;  never  even  does  she  pity  those  who  can,  and  are  not  wil- 
ling to  deserve  her  pity  by  opening  to  her  its  most  secret  fold. 
Sensitiveness  she  calls  pride,  and  pride  is  one  of  the  faults 
which  she  never  forgives.  Yet,  Aunt  Alice  is  very  forgiving ; 
her  charity,  indeed,  "  covereth  a  multitude  of  sins."  The 
most  sinful,  those  who  have  widest  erred  —  the  poor,  forsaken 
victim  of  shame  and  misery  and  guilt,  she  ever  takes  by  the 
hand,  whispering  kindly,  "  This  is  the  way  j  walk  ye  in  it." 
Among  those  whom  crime  has  made  outcasts  from  society  she 
labors  unceasingly ;  and  many  rescued  ones  can  point  to  her 
as  the  parent  of  their  better  natures.  Yet  there  is  no  one  so 


AUNT   ALICE.  135 

severe  on  foibles  as  Aunt  Alice.  Does  her  neighbor  wear  a 
gayer  bonnet  than  pleases  her  taste  ;  is  any  one  so  dazzled  by 
the  fascinations  of  society  as  to  err  in  world-loving ;  are  men 
entangled  in  the  net  of  pleasure  and  lured  to  sin,  instead  of 
being  pushed  into  it  by  want  and  woe  ;  for  them  Aunt  Alice 
has  no  sympathy. 

Yet,  again,  a  current  saying  among  the  poor  is,  that  the 
good  lady  has  no  clasp  upon  her  purse ;  it  is  told  by  others 
that  she  has  a  hard  and  griping  hand.  In  truth,  Aunt  Alice 
values  money  highly ;  but  she  values  it  only  so  far  as  it  gives 
her  the  means  to  benefit  her  fellow-men.  From  every  penny 
appropriated  to  another  purpose  she  parts  grudgingly.  She 
studies  economy  for  the  sake  of  the  suffering ;  and,  not  con- 
tent with  economizing  herself,  she  endeavors  to  compel  those 
with  whom  she  has  dealings  to  do  so  also.  Aunt  Alice  will 
bandy  words  a  half  hour  with  a  tradesman  for  the  sake  of  a 
few  shillings ;  and,  turning  round,  she  will  double  those  shil- 
lings in  charity.  It  is  not  that  she  prefers  generosity  to  jus- 
tice, but  her  view  of  things  is  contracted.  Her  errors  are  of 
judgment,  not  feeling. 

•I  do  not  wonder  that  people  call  Aunt  Alice  a  hypocrite  — 
but  I  do  wish  that  they  could  look  into  the  bosom  where  rests 
the  meek  and  quiet  spirit  which  they  falsify.  Oh !  Aunt 
Alice  has  a  true  and  generous  heart  —  a  heart  panting  to  be 
like  His  who  loved  the  'sinner,  while  hating  all  sin.  A  gen- 
erous heart  has  she  !  Pity  that  it  should  be  curbed,  half  its 
fervor  checked,  and  many  of  its  best  pulsations  hushed,  by  the 
narrow  mind  which  is  its  guide  and  governor ! 


136 


MY  FIRST  GRIEF. 

AN    EXTHACT. 

I  LAUGHED  and  crowed  above  this  water,  when  I  was  a 
baby,  and,  therefore,  I  love  it.  I  played  beside  it,  when  the 
days  were  years  of  summer-time,  and  the  summers  were 
young  eternities  of  brightness,  and,  therefore,  I  love  it.  It 
was  the  scene  of  my  first  grief,  too.  Shall  I  tell  you? 
There  is  not  much  to  tell,  but  I  have  a  notion  that  there  are 
people  above  us,  up  in  the  air,  and  behind  the  clouds,  that 
consider  little  girls'  doings  about  as  important  as  those  of 
men  and  women.  The  birds  and  the  angels  are  great  level- 
lers. 

It  was  a  dry  season;  the  brook  was  low,  and  a  gay -trout, 
in  a  coat  of  golden  brown,  dotted  over  with  crimson,  and  a 
silver  pinafore,  lay,  weather-bound,  on  the  half-dry  stones,  all 
heated  and  panting,  with  about  a  tea-spoonful  of  lukewarm 
water,  turning  lazily  from  its  head,  and  creeping  down  its 
back  at  too  slow  a  pace  to  afford  the  sufferer  hope  of  emanci- 
pation. My- sympathies- — little  girls,  you  must  know,  are 
made  up  of  love,,  and""  sympathy,  and  such  like  follies,  which 
afterwards  contract  into — rfimporte!  I  was  saying,  my 
sympathies  were  aroused ;  and,  quite  forgetting  that  water 
would  take  the  gloss  from  my  new  red  morocco  shoes,  I 
picked  my  way  along,  and  laying  hold  of  my  fine  gentleman 
in  limbo,  succeeded  in  burying  him,  wet  face  and  all,  in  the 
folds  of  my  white  apron!  But  suck  an  uneasy  prisoner! 
More  than  one  frightened  toss  did  he  get  into  the  grass,  and 
then  I  had  an  infinite  deal  of  trouble  to  secure  him  again. 
His  gratitude  was  very  like  that  of  human's,  when  you  do 
them  unasked  service. 


MY   FIRST   GRIEF.  137 

When  I  had  reached  a  cool,  shaded,  deep  spot,  far  adown, 
where  the,  spotted  alders  lean,  like  so  many  self-enamored 
narcissuses,  over  the  ripple-faced  mirror,  I  dropped  my  apron, 
and  let  go  my  prize.  '  Ah !  he  was  grateful  then !  He  must 
have  been !  How  he  (Jived,  and  sprang  to  the  surface,  and 
spread  out  his  little  wings  of  dark-ribbed  gossamer,  and 
frisked  about,  kee'ping  all  the  time  a  cool,  thin  sheet  of  sil- 
ver between  his  back  and  the.  sun-sick  air !  I  loved  that 
pretty  fish, -for  I  had  been  kind  to  it;  and  I  thought  it  would 
love  me,  too,  and  stay  there,  and  be  a  play-fellow  for  me ;  so 
I  went  every  day  and  watched  for  it,  and  watched~  until  my 
little  eyes  ached ;  but  I  never  saw  it  again.  That  was  my 
first  grief;  what  is  there,  in  years  to  make  a  heart  ache 
heavier  ?  That  first  will  be  -longer  remembered  than  the  last, 
I  dare  say. 

VOL.  n.  12* 


138 


THE  MIGNIONETTE. 


I  KNOW  there  is  an  angel  in  some  bosoms  —  an  angel 
which  the  Redeemer  leaves  to  guard  his  own  peculiar  jewels 
—  which  will  touch  most  delicately  the  keys  of  love  and 
truthfulness,  whatever  nets  the  world  without  may  be  weav- 
ing to  cripple  its  pure  wings.  But,  in  generd,  we  are  imita- 
tive creatures,  and  we  copy  from  our  surroundings.  We 
catch  the  tricks  of  the  leaves,  and  the  breezes,  and  the  flower- 
buds,  when  we  make  our  homes  among  them ;  and,  when 
we  congregate  on  hot  pavements,  the  air  we  breathe  is  sear- 
ing to  the  spirit,  however  you  may  tell  us  it  affects  the  spirit's 
casket.  It  is  better  to  be  a  "  God-make"  than  a  "  man-make," 
as  the  little  deaf  mute,  Jack,  would  say ;  and  men  will  re- 
fashion God's  doings,  even  in  our  own  natures,  if  we  do  not 
prevent  them.  For  this  reason,  it  seems  to  me  not  only 
peculiarly  silly,  but  wicked,  to  transplant  the  early  spring 
violet  from  the  brook-side  to  your  conservatory.  A  gay. 
fashionable  man,  with  a  touch  of  poetry,  and  more  of  worldli- 
ness  about  him,  attempted  it  a  few  years  ago ;  but  he  spoiled 
his  flower.  Poor  Minna  Gray !  She  was  a  pure,  gentle 
creature ;  but  when  she  was  removed  from  the  influences  of 
home,  with  so  much  to  attract,  so  much  to  wonder  at  and 
bewilder,  was  it  strange  that  her  young  heart  should  grow 
stagnant  to  any  but  the  thrilling  touch  of  the  magic  world 
that  accorded  so  well  with  her  dreams  of  fairy-land  ?  No  ; 
if  the  world-weary  man  would  have  the  wild  violet  in  its  fra- 
grance, and  freshness,  and  purity,  he  must  go  and  live  beside 
it ;  it  is  well  worth  the  sacrifice,  and  will  droop  in  any  other 
soil.  We  have  a  strange  notion  in  this  strange  world,  of 
fashioning  pure  things  to  our  own  hands,  instead  of  fashion- 
ing ourselves  to  them. 


THE    MIGNIONETTE.  139 

In  the  days  when  all  the  moveless  dumb  things  on  the 
earth  talked  and  walked  about,  a  Thistle  grew  down  in  the 
corner  of  a  neglected  garden,  in  the  midst  of  other  Thistles,  all 
proud  of  their  purple  blossoms  and  brave  defences.  But 
there  was  one  thing  about  the  porcupine-like  armor  of  the 
Thistle  family,  which  did  not  quite  please  this  gallant 
knight.  They  were  all  bristling  with  prickles;  and  they 
could  not  draw  near  each  other  with  the  loving  confidence 
displayed  by  the  little  bed  of  Mignionette  close  by ;  so,  in 
the  midst  of  kindred  and  friends,  the  Thistle  felt  alone.  Per- 
haps, if  he  had  cast  off  his  own  armor,  and  wheedled  from  the 
air  some  of  the  sweetness  it  had  rifled  from  his  fragrant  neigh- 
bors, the  others  might  have  imitated  him ;  but,  instead  of 
that,  like  many  a  poet  of  the  present  day,  he  stood  up  in  all 
his  exclusiveness ;  and,  from  dawn  to  dew-fall,  sighed  for 
companionship.  At  last  he  began  to  throw  loving  glances 
towards  the  Mignionette ;  and  one  little,  fragrant,  dewy  blos- 
som saw  him,  and  blushed,  hiding  her  meek  head  behind  her 
companions.  From  that  day  the  knight  resolved  to  woo  the 
little  trembler,  and  fashion  her  beautiful  spirit  for  his  own 
happiness.  "  She  shall  grow  close  beside  me,"  he  said  to 
himself;  "  her  roots  shall  twine  with  mine  down  in  the  dark 
earth,  and  her  slender,  delicate  stem  I  will  support  and  train 
upwards,  and  she  will  cling  lovingly  to  me  forever."  So  he 
expended  a  few  more  tender  glances,  and  sent  some  gallant 
speeches  by  the  little  wind-messengers ;  and  at  last  pretty 
Mignon  stept  from  the  midst  of  her  sisters,  and  laid  her  fra- 
grant head  on  the  bosom  of  her  mettlesome  wooer.  For  a 
little  time,  whose  life  so  bright  as  that  of  Knight  Thistle  ? 
But  sometimes  the  sharp  thorns  in  his  armor  wounded  his 
gentle  bride,  and  then  came  tears  and  chidings ;  sometimes, 
when  he  bent  his  head  to  touch  her  bright  lip,  there  seemed 
a  strong  scent  of  the  Thistle  in  her  breath,  instead  of  the  fra- 
grance which  had  made  the  whole  garden  rich ;  and  some- 
times, at  midnight,  when  the  wind  was  a  little  noisier  than 
usual,  and  the  tall  Thistle-heads  hissed  a  response,  he  fan- 
cied that  another  hiss  arose  close  beside  him,  and  he  did  not 


140  THE    MIGWONETTE. 

love  his  Mignon  more  for  growing  so  like  himself.  Finally, 
after  a  year  or  two  had  passed,  the  Thistle  found,  to  his  dis- 
may, that  the  roots  of  the  Mignionette  were  so  interwoven 
with  those  of  her  stout  neighbors,  that  they  were  in  no  wise 
distinguishable  ;  then  thorns  grew  from  her  sides,  and  wounded 
as  his  had  done ;  she  put  a  purple  crown  upon  her  head,  and 
became  a  Thistle.  It  was  not  very  strange,  for  she  had  lain 
upon  his  heart,  and  its  throbbings  were  not  good  for  her ;  she 
had  listened  to  his  whispers,  and  in  them  had  forgotten  the 
pure,  sweet  converse  of  her  sisters,  though  her  fainting 
spirit  longed  for  it ;  and  she  had  breathed  the  air  that  the 
Thistles  breathed,  until  her  whole  nature  was  contaminated. 

But  from  that  day  to  this,  the  whole  family  of  Thistles 
(which  has  since  become  very  numerous,  and  does  not 
always  wear  the  purple)  declare  the  modest  little  Mignionette 
to  be  no  purer,  no  gentler,  no  sweeter  or  more  loving  than 
themselves  j  and  they  firmly  believe  th,at  there  are  no  such 
virtues  as  these  in  the  wide  world,  and  those  who  seem  most 
to  practise  them,  are  only  the  most  adroit  deceivers. 

Ah!  pretty  Mignionettes,  sweet  Violets,  bright  Minna 
Grays;  beware  of  the  world — nestle  in  your  seclusion — 
guard  well  your  simple,  trustful  hearts ;  your  innocence  is  no 
match  for  the  strong  continual  influence  which  always  enters 
by  the  purest  door  of  your  natures  to  desecrate  your  trea- 
sures. 


141 


MINISTERING   ANGELS. 

MOTHER,  has  the  dove  that  nestled 

Lovingly  upon  thy  breast, 
Folded  up  its  little  pinion, 

And  in  darkness  gone  to  rest? 
Nay ;  the  grave  is  dark  and  dreary, 

But  the  lost  one  is  not  there  ; 
Hear'st  thou  not  its  gentle  whisper, 

Floating  on  the  ambient  air  ? 
It  is  near  thee,  gentle  mother, 

Near  thee  at  the  evening  hour ; 
Its  soft  ldss>  is  in  the  zephyr, 

It  looks  up  from  every  flower. 
And  when,  Night's  dark  shadows  fleeing, 

Low  thou  bendest  thee  in  prayer, 
And  thy  heart  feels  nearest  heaven, 

Then  thy  angel  babe  is  there. 

Maiden,  has  thy  noble  brother, 

On  whose  manly  form  thine  eye 
Loved  full  oft  in  pride  to  linger, 

On  whose  heart  thou  couldst  rely, 
Though  all  other  hearts  deceived  thee, 

All  proved  hollow,  earth  grew  drear, 
Whose  protection,  ever  o'er  thee, 

Hid  thee  from  the  cold  world's  sneer, — 
Has  he  left  thee  here  to  struggle, 

All  unaided  on  thy  way  ? 
Nay ;  he  still  can  guide  and  guard  thee, 

Still  thy  faltering  steps  can  stay : 
Still,  when  danger  hovers  o'er  thee, 

He  than  danger  is  more  near ; 


142  MINISTERING    ANGELS. 

When  in  grief  thou  'si  none  to  pity, 
He,  the  sainted,  marks  each  tear. 

Lover,  is-the  light  extinguished, 

Of  the  gem  that,  in  thy  heart 
Hidden  deeply,  to  thy  being 

All  its  sunshine  could  impart? 
Look  above !  't  is  burning  brighter 

Than  the  very  stars  in  heaven ; 
And  to  light  thy  dangerous  pathway, 

All  its  new-found  glory  's  given. 
With  the  sons  of  earth  commingling, 

Thou  the  loved  one  mayst  forget ; 
Bright  eyes  flashing,  tresses  waving, 

May  have  power  to  win  thee  yet ; 
But  e'en  then  that  guardian  spirit 

Oft  will  whisper  in  thine  ear, 
And  in  silence,  and  at  midnight, 

Thou  wilt  know  she  hovers  near. 

Orphan,  thou  most  sorely  stricken 

Of  the  mourners  thronging  earth, 
Clouds  half  veil  thy  brightest  sunshine, 

Sadness  mingles  with  thy  mirth. 
Yet,  although  that  gentle  bosom, 

Which  has  pillowed  oft  thy  head, 
Now  is  cold,  thy  mother's  spirit 

Cannot  rest  among  the  dead. 
Still  her  watchful  eye  is  o'er  thee 

Through  the  day,  and  still  at  night 
Hers  the  eye  that  guards  thy  slumber, 

Making  thy  young  dreams  so  bright. 
O  !  the  friends,  the  friends  we  Ve  cherished, 

How  we  weep  to  see  them  die ! 
All  unthinking  they  're  the  angels 

That  will  guide  us  to  the  sky ! 


143 


THE  RAIN  A  THOUGHT-MAKER.    - 

WOULD  you  believe  it,  "  Bel"  —  that  there  is  poetry  in  a 
woodpile  —  genuine,  unmitigated  poetry,  dipped  up  from  the 
very  heart  of  Helicon  ?  Would  you  believe  it  ?  Well,  there 
is ;  and,  what  is  better  still,  it  is  not  a  moth  born  of  the  sun- 
shine ;  but  a  genuine  bird  of  Parnassus,  dashing  rain-diamonds 
from  its  wings,  and  weaving  rainbows,  and  turning  rain-clouds 
into  —  whatever  you  choose  —  the  friar's  cowl  and  gown,  or 
the  ermine  and  velvet  of  St.  James,  as  your  taste  suggests. 
But  it  is  a  Niobe ;  or  rather  a  Venus  bathing  in  an  upper  sea ; 
for  the  muse  of  the  woodpile,  you  must  know,  is  a  rain-divin- 
ity. To  illustrate.  We  have  had  a  week —  O,  such  a  week  ! 
If  I  possessed  any  mechanical  skill  it  would  have  made  a 
Noah  of  me,  six  days  ago.  Drizzle,  drizzle  !  patter,  patter ! 
from  darkness  to  darkness ;  for  the  day  is  one  continued  twi- 
light', the  damp  light  coming  in  and  going  out  at  its  usual 
hours,  as  though  it  acted  only  from  a  sense  of  duty — sick 
and  dizzy  enough,  meanwhile,  to  prefer  being  alone.  The 
night,  too  —  but  nights  never  hang  heavily  on  my  hands, 
thanks  to  the  little  people  from  Dreamland. 

Did  you  ever  spend  a  rainy  day  in  the  country,  "  Bel  ? " 
You  will  say,  yes ;  for  now  I  have  asked,  I  recollect  one  or 
two  when  you  were  with  us.  But  Walter  was  here  then ; 
so,  of  course,  your  sun  shone.  Once  imagine  those  rainy 
days  without  a  lover,  "  Bella ;"  and  then  think  of  seven  of 
them  all  in  a  row,  so  near  alike  that  you  cannot  distinguish 
one  from  its  twin  ;  and  you  must  keep  an  almanac  in  your 
hand  to  prove  to  yourself  that  yesterday  has  not  come  back 
again  to  cheat  you  into  living  a  stale  day.  By  the  way,  what 
a  fresh  life  we  have  of  it;  forever  using  new  time,  moments 
just  coined  from  stray  fragments  of  eternity,  soiled  by  nobody's 
breath,  and  thrown  by  as  soon  as  tarnished  or  embalmed  by 


144  THE    BAIN    A     THOUGHT-MAKES. 

ours.  Not  quite  thrown  by,  either.  They  are  following  after 
us,  a  line  of  strange  things  strangely  broidered  over,  to  buoy 
us  heavenward,  like  the  tail  of  a  kite,  or  drag  us  down,  a  chain 
of  lead.  "  Revenons  a  nos  moutons" 

The  woodpile.  There  it  stands,  with  the  water  drip,  drip- 
ping from  it  —  all  motionless,  and  meek  as  Mooly  "  midway 
in  the  marshy  pool;"  (you  admire  musical  sounds,  "Bel;" 
and  there  is  alliteration  for  you,  worthy  of  the  fair  Laura 
Matilda  herself.)  Drip  !  drip !  there 's  something  chiding  in 
that  woodpile  —  a  dumb  reverence  for  what  is,  which  makes 
me  ashamed  of  wishing  for  the  ninety-ninth  time,  as  I  was  on 
the  point  of  doing,  that  the  rain  "would  be  over  and  gone." 
Resigned  to  the  decrees  of  Providence !  O,  it  is  a  hard  thing, 
"  Bel."  Think  of  our  hopes,  as  they  are  first  formed,  with  a 
heart-throb  in  every  tiny  bud ;  then  think  of  them  as  they 
begin  to  expand,  blushing,  brightening,  bursting  out  from  the 
envious  green,  fresh  and  glorious — our  gay,  gorgeous  hopes; 
think  of  them  in  their  glad  beauty,  and  watch  the  coming 
of  the  rain-storm.  How  they  strive  to  stand,  poor  perishable 
things  !  How  they  wave,  and  quiver,  and  wrestle  !  and  then 
see  their  bright  petals  swept  downward  and  scattered,  gem- 
ming the  wet  ground,  before  one  sun-ray  had  given  them  a 
baptismal  kiss.  Lost  before  named  !  Poor  hopes  !  Pitiable 
hopers ! 

Not  poetry,  did  you  say  ?  Well,  it  is  philosophy,  then ; 
and  I  am  by  no  means  sure  that  there  is  the  difference  of  a 
maple  and  an  elm  stick  between  the  two.  I  am  inclined  to 
believe  that  the  same  divinity  presides  over  both.  To  be 
sure,  poetry  shows  the  dimpled  foot,  mantled  only  by  the  hem 
of  a  lady's  robe ;  while  philosophy  strides  off  in  buskin  and 
hosen ;  but  you  may  see  them  step  behind  the  scenes  at  any 
moment,  and  exchange  attire. 

I  have  gained  quite  an  affection  for  that  woodpile,  since  I 
have  had  nothing  else  to  look  at ;  and  it  went  to  my  heart 
this  morning  to  have  a  heavy  armful  transferred  to  my  room, 
for  the  purpose  of  correcting  the  dampness  of  the  atmosphere. 
I  felt  as  though  committing  a  kind  of  sacrilege ;  worse  still, 


THE     RAIN    A    THCT-GHT-BIAKER.  145 

burning  my  monitor,  because  perhaps  its  teachings  chid  me. 
And  then,  when  the  wild  flames  were  all  raving  around  it, 
how  could  I  help,  "  Bel ; "  unclasping  a  clasp,  and  looking 
into  the  morrow  of  a  little  trembler,  who  would  fain  cling 
a  life-long  to  the  present  ?  My  life  has  been  one  track  of 
roses ;  I  have  imbibed  their  freshness,  and  drunk  their  per- 
fume ;  my  smiles  have  been  heart-born,  and  every  tear  has 
had  a  rainbow  in  it.  I  have  led  a  happy,  happy  life,  "  Bel" 
—  thank  God !  who  has  granted  every  blessing  to  a  hoping 
mother's  prayers.  But  a  wiser  than  the  hoping  has  said,  "  If 
a  man  live  many  years,  and  rejoice  in  them  all,  yet  let  him 
remember  the  days  of  darkness ;  for  they  shall  be  many." 
Not  entire  darkness,  "  Bel ;  "  for  I  know  of  stars  that  will  al- 
ways sparkle,  of  lamps  that  will  always  burn  ;  but  still  there 
are  days  of  trial  awaiting  me  —  perhaps  in  the  distance,  per- 
haps very  near,  even  at  the  door.  I  cannot  die  till  my  lip 
has  pressed  the  bitter.  Heaven  help  me,  then !  and  not  me 
alone,  but  all  of  us. 

I  wish  you  could  sit  by  me  this  morning,  and  see  my  fire 
burn.  There  is  John  Rogers  himself,  with  his  picket  fence 
of  .little  people,  to  keep  him  from  running  away,  just  as  he 
stands  in  the  primer ;  and  there  is  the  veritable  hero,  Jack- 
the-giant-killer,  if  I  am  to  judge  by  the  enormous  club  he 
carries,  three  times  the  size  of  himself;  and  there  —  there,  as 
I  live,  is  your  own  Broadway,  the  genuine  article,  the  shops 
all  tricked  out  in  finery,  and  the  passers-by  in  the  same  way 
bedizened  —  all  walking  show-cases.  And  now  the  fire-scene 
changes,  and  I  look  into  a  magnificent  palace,  —  my  foot  is 
aching  just  to  press  that  gorgeous  carpet,  and — there,  a  stick 
has  rolled  down  upon  it,  and  my  palace  is  in  the  condition  of 
many  another  one  that  I  have  builded.  That  big  stick  of 
maple  seems  to  me  like  a  martyr,  suffering  for  opinion's  sake. 
Certainly  it  is  the  very  stick  that  I  saw  yesterday  turning  its 
bleached  face  heavenward  with  a  submissiveness  which  had 
no  sigh  in  it  j  and,  with  its  last  year's  green  for  a  text,  it 
preached  me  a  long  sermon.  It  was  not  a  very  agreeable  one, 
however.  Shall  I  tell  you  a  few  things  it  wrote  on  my  heart  * 

VOL.  n.  13 


146  THE    HAIN    A    THOUGHT-MAKER. 

I  never  afflicted  myself  much  at  the  decay  of  empires — 
never  gave  half  as  many  tears  to  the  downfall  of  all  the  mighty 
mourning  places  of  the  old  world  combined,  as  I  shed  over  the 
grave  I  dug  in  childhood  for  a  poor  broken-winged  robin  I 
had  striven  to  win  back  to  life.  My  heart  is  not  big  enough 
for  that  kind  of  sympathy ;  and  there  is  no  use  in  trying  to 
convince  me  that  there  is  a  place  in  the  world  of  quite  as 
much  consequence  as  Alderbrook.  If  I  should  wake  some  of 
these  mornings,  and  find  the  houses  all  turned  into  stacks  of 
chimneys,  (we  have  few  Grecian  pillars,  and  such  like  un- 
necessaries,  so  our  ruins  would  not  be  very  romantic,)  and  the 
direction  of  the  only  nice  street  we  have,  such  a  disputable 
thing  that  the  antiquarians  of  Cro'w-kill  would  wrangle  about 
it  forever  after  ;  I  say,  if  I  should  awake  and  find  changes 
like  these,  I  should  probably  weep  a  few  such  tears  as  have, 
during  the  lapse  of  centuries,  bathed  the  ruins  that  claim  the 
world  for  mourners.  But,  after  all,  it  would  be  nothing  in 
comparison  with  seeing  a  new  grave  dug  over  the  white  stile 
yonder,  among  the  cypresses.  The  decay  of  life,  the  extin- 
guishing of  the  lamp  lighted  by  the  hand  of  God, — O,  there 
is  something  in  that  which  I  can  feel !  I  do  not  know  what 
kind  of  life  there  was  in  that  maple-tree  last  summer — how 
high,  how  glorious,  how  much  like  this  which  is  now  swel- 
ling in  my  veins  and  bubbling  at  my  heart — but  I  do 
know  that  there  was  life  in  it.  And  life,  of  whatever  kind,  is 
a  mysterious,  a  fearfully  mysterious  thing.  But  it  is  gone 
now ;  and  the  living  tree,  which  gloried  in  the  sunlight,  and 
wrestled  with  the  winds  of  heaven — that  had  veins  and  arte- 
ries, through  which  the  life-current  wandered  as  through  mine, 
is  degraded  to  the  impassiveness  of  the  stone — below  the  stone 
in  its  early  perishableness,  as  the  human  frame  is  below  that 
in  a  more  revolting  dissolution.  Sometimes  I  fancy,  as  the 
stick  lies  smouldering  in  that  crust  of  gray  ashes,  that  the 
principle  of  life  has  not  yet  departed  from  it ;  for,  the  unwil- 
ling yielding  to  the  flame,  the  occasional  brightening  up,  as 
though  a  hoping  soul  looked  through  it,  the  half-mirthful 
crackle,  and  the  low,  mournful  song,  like  its  own  requiem,  all 


THE    RAIN    A   THOUGHT-MAKER.  147 

seem  to  speak  of  an  inner  life,  which  the  axe  of  the  woodman 
failed  to  reach.  I  observe,  too,  as  I  watch  it,  fragments 
crumbling  back  into  ashes ;  while,  above,  floats  oft'  a  blue 
wreath,  waving  and  curling — winging  its  way  heavenward 
with  all  the  gladness  of  an  emancipated  spirit.  Will  you  be- 
lieve with  me,  "  Bella,"  that  this  is  the  same  spirit  which  ani- 
mated the  living  leaves  of  the  maple  tree,  when  they  coquet- 
ted with  the  summer  sun-light,  and  folded  the  wind  genii  in 
their  green  arms,  and  whispered,  with  their  fresh  lips,  of 
things,  which,  I  suppose,  the  birds  know  more  about  than  we. 
Why  should  it  not  be  ?  I  have  no  objection  to  the  Indian's  plan 
of  taking  dogs,  and  horses,  and  other  lovable  things,  to  hea- 
ven ;  though  I  am  not  sure 'that  I  should  like  to  see  him  chase 
the  "  spotted  Fomen,"  or  put  a  veto  on  the  nourish  of  bright 
wings  ;  but  I  think  all  these  will  be  a  study  for  us  there.  Our 
natures  have  become  contracted  in  this  cramped-up  breathing- 
place,  where  we  are  hustled  about,  and  jostled  against  each 
other,  till  self-protection — self,  self-everyihiug — is  the  one 
chord  vibrating  to  our  every  breath.  We  have  arranged  a 
book  of  nature,  and  put  ourselves  in  as  a  frontispiece ;  (the 
picture — other  living  things,  only  the  border;)  but  the  whole 
may  be  reversed  in  heaven. 

" Just  as  short  of  reason  he  may  fall, 

Who  thinks  all  made  for  one,  as  one  for  all." 

And  what  egotism  to  believe  our  own  the  only  deathless 
spirits  to  pass  from  this  bright  earth  to  a  brighter  Paradise ! 
Ourselves  alone  gifted  with  the  true  life — all  things  else 
cursed  with  a  mockery,  a  semblance,  like  the  iris-hued  bubble 
to  the  sun. 

But,  "Bell,"  I  do  hope  this  maple  stick  is  as  insensible  as  it 
seemed  on  the  wood-pile  yesterday ;  for  I  have  no  great  fancy 
for  playing  the  executioner,  though  it  did  teach  me  an  ugly 
lesson.  What  that  lesson  was,  I  have  only  hinted  at  yet ;  it 
is  scarce  a  thing  to  repeat  to  one  so  bright  and  joyous  as  you 
are.  Perhaps  you  never  think  of  the  dark  phantoms  that 
trouble  the  existence  of  other  mortals — but  0,  "  Bell,"  death 
is  a  thing  to  dread  !  And  then  it  is  such  an  ever-present  thing ; 


148  THE    RAIN    A    THOUGHT-MAKER. 

we  are  so  reminded  of  it  every  moment  of  our  lives !  There 
is  no  hour  so  sacred,  no  place  so  secure,  but  we  cast  a  look 
over  the  shoulder  at  the  fearful  shape  following  us.  At  dawn 
and  at  dew-fall,  at  noon-tide  blaze,  and  in  the  star-broidered 
midnight,  it  is  all  the  same. 

When  day  is  (lying  in  the  west, 

Each  flickering  ray  of  crimson  light, 
The  sky,  in  gold  and  purple  dressed, 

The  cloud,  with  glory  all  bedight, 

And  every  shade  that  ushers  night, 
And  each  cool  breeze  that  comes  to  weave 
Its  dampness  with  my  curls  —  all  leave 
A  lesson  sad. 

Last  night  I  plucked  a  half-shut  flower, 
Which  blushed  and  nodded  on  its  stem ; 

A  thing  to  grace  a  Peri's  bower ; 
It  seemed  to  me  some  priceless  gem, 
Dropped  from  an  angel's  diadem  ; 

But  soon  the  blossom  drooping  lay, 

And,  as  it  withered,  seemed  to  say, 

We  're  passing  all! 

I  loved  a  fair-haired,  gentle  boy, 

(A  bud  of  brightness  —  ah,  too  rare !) 
I  loved  him,  and  I  saw  with  joy 

Heaven's  purity  all  centred  there  ; 

But  he  went  up,  that  heaven  to  share  ; 
And,  as  his  spirit  from  him  stole, 
His  last  look  graved  upon  my  soul, 

Learn  thus  to  die  ! 

I  've  seen  the  star  that  glowed  in  heaven, 
When  other  stars  seemed  half  asleep, 

As  though  from  its  proud  station  driven, 
Go  rushing  down  the  azure  steep, 
Through  space  unmeasured,  dark,  and  deep  ; 

And,  as  it  vanished  far  in  night, 

I  read  by  its  departing  light, 

Thus  perish  all ! 

I've,  in  its  dotage,  seen  the  year, 

Worn  out  and  weary,  struggling  on, 
Till  falling  prostrate  on  its  bier, 

Time  marked  another  cycle  gone  ; 

And,  as  I  heard  the  dying  moan, 


THE    RAIN    A    THOUGHT-MAKER.  149 

Upon  my  trembling  heart,  there  fell 
The  awful  words,  as  by  a  spell, 

Death  —  death  to  all ! 

They  come  on  every  breath  of  air, 

Which  sighs  its  feeble  life  away  ; 
They  're  whispered  by  each  blossom  fair, 

Which  folds  a  lid  at  close  of  day  ; 

There 's  nought  of  earth,  or  sad  or  gay, 
There 's  nought  below  the  star-lit  skies, 
But  leaves  one  lesson  as  it  flies  — 

Thou  too  must  die  ! 

And  numberless  those  silvery  chords, 

Dissevered  by  the  spoiler's  hand, 
But  each  in  breaking  still  affords 

A  tone  to  say  we  all  are  banned  ; 

And  on  each  brow  by  death-damps  spanned, 
The  pall,  the  slowly  moving  hearse, 
Is  traced  the  burden  of  my  verse,  — 

Death  — death  to  man! 

Ah !  the  strong,  the  mighty  may  well  turn  pale,  and  quake, 
and  shrivel,  and  mewl,  even  as  an  infant  in  its  swaddlings, 
with  that  skeleton  finger  stealthily  winding  itself  among  the 
warm,  bloodful  veins,  turning  them  to  ice  as  it  goes.  With 
that  dark  sovereign  of  a  darksome  hour  looking  into  his  eyes 
and  counting  through  these  faithful  mirrors  the  pulsations  of 
the  heart  below ;  scattering,  one  by  one,  the  sands  from  his 
glass,  and  stealing,  drop  by  drop,  the  life  from  its  fountain,  the 
brave,  strong-souled  man  may  measure  courage  with  the  timid 
maiden,  and  never  blush  to  find  an  equal  in  heroism.  To 
have  those  who  have  loved,  caressed,  and  watched  over  us 
with  sleepless  attention,  turn  loathingly  from  us  and  hustle  us 
into  the  earth,  among  the  stones  and  festering  germs  of  poi- 
sonous weeds,  with  the  frozen  clods  upon  our  bosoms,  to 
moulder  in  darkness  and  gloom,  to  be  trod  upon  and  forgotten ; 
while  beautiful  beings  that  we  could  love,  O,  so  dearly !  are 
flitting  above  us ;  and  the  light  is  glancing  ;  and  birds,  drunk 
with  joyousness,  wheeling  and  careering  in  the  sunbeam  ;  and 
all  the  world  going  on  merrily,  as  when  our  hearts  went  with 
it  —  Oh  !  what  has  man's  courage,  man's  strength,  man's  stern 
self-control,  to  offer  against  such  an  overwhelming  certainty  ! 

VOL.  II.  13* 


150  THE   RAIN    A   THOUGHT-MAKER. 

There  is  so  much  in  this  dear,  beautiful  world,  too,  for  the 
heart  to  cling  to !  What  is  there  in  the  sad  catalogue  of 
human  suffering  like  wrenching  away 

That  holy  link  which  first 

Within  the  soul's  rich  mine  was  moulded  ; 
When  life  awoke,  and  love's  pure  wing 
Another  nestling  close  enfolded  ? 

We  turn  to  the  hearth-stone  in  the  hour  of  pain,  and  nestle 
back  upon  a  mother's  bosom  ;  and  we  say,  we  cannot  leave  it 
—  we  cannot  die !  A  father's  proud  eye  is  on  us  —  ambition 
blossoms  in  our  hearts  beneath  it ;  and  then,  how  stiflingly 
steal  over  us  thoughts  of  the  coffin  and  the  grave !  How  can 
we  die  in  the  dew  of  our  morning,  with  all  those  glowing  vis- 
ions unrealized !  How  can  we  pass  in  age,  when  the  thousand 
chains  which  we  have  been  our  life-long  forging,  are  all 
linked  to  the  bright,  beautiful  things  here,  which  we  can  but 
love !  Father  in  heaven,  teach  me  trust  in  Thee !  As 
these  chords,  which  Thou  hast  strung,  lose  tone,  and  canker 
against  thy  cunning  workmanship,  gather  them  into  thine  own 
hand,  and  attune  them  anew  to  accord  with  the  harps  of 
angels.  Teach  me  trust  in  Thee ;  that  when  the  coffin-lid 
shuts  out  the  sunshine,  and  the  green-bladed  grass  springs 
between  my  breast  and  the  feet  of  the  living,  I  may  still  be  in 
the  midst  of  light,  and  joy,  and  love  —  love  measureless  as 
eternity. 

I  had  quite  forgotten  that  I  was  writing  a  letter,  "  Bel,"  and 
have  jotted  down  the  thoughts  as  they  came  tumbling  to  the 
point  of  my  pen,  with  a  merciless  lack  of  consideration  for 
you,  who  are  probably  basking  in  the  mirth-giving  brightness 
of  a  sunny  morning.  But  by  this  you  will  discover  that  a 
rainy  day  in  the  country  is  not  without  its  uses.  It  gives  us 
thinking-time,  and  that  lengthens  our  lives ;  —  none  live  so 
fast  and  have  so  few  way-marks  as  the  butterflies.  Besides, 
thought  is  the  father  of  action  —  so,  to  that  great  sheet  of  mist, 
and  the  dripping  rain,  and  the  beaded  grass,  and  the  streets, 
many  a  good  deed  may  owe  its  parentage.  But  now  my  stick 
of  maple  is  nearly  charred,  and  my  eyes  are  trying  to  hide 


THE    RAIN    A    THOUGHT-MAKER.  151 

themselves  behind  pairs  of  fringes  which  are  nearing  each 
other  for  an  embrace.  I  will  to  sleep,  "  Bel,"  with  a  looking- 
glass  in  the  window,  to  give  me  intelligence  of  the  first  strip 
of  blue  that  disengages  itself  from  the  prisoning  clouds. 
Adieu,  my  bright  cousin !  All  good  attend  you,  and  no  more 
rain  visit  New  York  than  may  be  needed  as  a  thought-maker. 


GENIUS. 

THEEE  is  a  melancholy  pleasure  in  turning  over  the  records 
of  genius,  and  familiarizing  ourselves  with  the  secret  workings 
of  those  minds  that  have,  from  time  to  time,  made  memorable 
the  ages  in  which  they  lived,  and  ennobled  the  several  na- 
tions which  gave  them  birth.  But  it  is  not  the  indulgence  of 
this  feeling  which  makes  such  a  study  peculiarly  profitable  to 
us :  from  these  records  we  may  learn  much  of  the  philosophy 
of  the  human  mind  in  its  most  luxurious  developments. 
Genius  seems  to  be  confined  to  no  soil,  no  government,  no 
age  or  nation,  and  no  rank  in  society.  When  men  lived  in 
wandering  tribes,  and  could  boast  no  literature,  the  bright 
flame  burned  among  them,  although  wild  and  often  deadly  its 
ray ;  and  the  foot  of  oppression,  which  crushes  all  else,  has 
failed  to  extinguish  it.  Hence  it  has  rashly  been  inferred 
that  this  peculiar  gift,  possessed  by  the  favored  few,  may  be 
perfected  without  any  exertion  on  their  part,  and  is  subject  to 
none  of  the  rules  which  in  all  other  cases  govern  intellect ; 
but  that,  uncontrolled  and  uncontrollable,  it  must  burst  forth 
when  and  where  it  will,  and  be  burned  up  in  the  blaze  of  its 
own  glory,  leaving  but  the  halo  of  its  former  brightness 
upon  the  historic  page.  This  inference,  however,  is  alike 
erroneous  and  dangerous.  Though  genius  be  an  unsought 
gift,  a  peculiar  emanation  from  the  Divine  Mind,  it  was  not 
originally  intended  as  a  glorious  curse,  to  crush  the  spirit 
which  it  elevates.  Perchance  the  pent-up  stream  within  the 
soul  must  find  an  avenue ;  but  he  who  bears  the  gift  may 
choose  that  avenue, — may  direct,  control  and  divert ;  he  may 
scatter  the  living  waters  on  a  thousand  objects,  or  pour  their 
whole  force  upon  one ;  he  may  calm  and  purify  them,  by  this 
means  rendering  them  none  the  less  deep,  or  he  may  allow 


GENIUS.  153 

them  to  dash  and  foam  until,  however  they  sparkle,  the  dark 
sediments  of  vice  and  misery  thus  made  to  mingle,  may  be 
found  in  every  gem. 

Let  us  turn  to  the  oft-quoted  names  of  Byron  and  Burns 
— names  that  can  scarcely  be  mentioned  by  the  admirers  of 
genius  without  a  thrill  of  pain.  To  the  poor  ploughman  on 
the  banks  of  the  Doon  was  sent  the  glorious  talisman,  and 
with  it  he  unlocked  the  portals  of  nature,  and  read  truths  even 
in  the  flower  overturned  by  his  ploughshare,  unseen  by  com- 
mon eyes.  But  mark  his  veering  course  ;  think  of  his  (com- 
paratively) wasted  energies.  He  could  love  the  wild  flowers 
in  the  braes  and  the  sunlight  on  the  banks  of  his  "  bonny 
Doon;"  he  could,  at  least  at  one  time,  smile  at  his  lowly  lot; 
and  he  ever  contended  against  fortune  with  a  strong  and 
fearless  hand.  But  while  the  polished  society  of  Edinburgh 
owned  his  power,  and  he  swayed  the  hearts  of  lads  and  lass- 
es of  his  own  degree  at  will,  he  could  not  control  himself; 
and  many  of  those  light  songs,  which  are  now  on  gladsome 
lips,  might,  could  we  enter  into  the  secrets  of  the  poor  bard, 
be  but  the  sad  way-marks  of  the  aching  heart,  as  it  grew  each 
day'  heavier  till  it  sank  into  the  grave.  Burns,  the  light- 
hearted  lover  of  his  "  Highland  Mary,"  and  Burns,  the  care- 
worn exciseman,  were  very  different  persons;  but  neither 
outward  circumstances  nor  the  genius  that  characterized  both 
alike,  was  the  cause.  The  world  has  been  blamed  in  his  case ; 
but  the  world,  after  it  first  noticed,  could  have  done  nothing 
to  save.  The  poet,  had  he  known  his  moral  strength  and 
cared  to  exert  it,  could  have  saved  himself,  as  his  superiority 
to  many  of  the  foibles  and  prejudices  of  human  nature  and 
his  manly  independence  on  many  occasions  evinced. 

Byron,  like  his  own  archangel  ruined  guiding  a  fallen  son 
of  clay  in  his  search  after  mysteries,  has  delved  among  hidden 
treasures  and  spread  before  us  the  richest  gems  of  Helicon ; 
but  scarce  one  of  these  but  is  dark  in  its  glory,  and,  although 
burning  with  all  the  fire  of  heaven-born  poesy,  sends  forth  a 
mingled  and  dangerous  ray.  But  had  a  mother  whispered 
her  pious  counsels  in  his  ear  in  boyhood  ;  had  a  friendly  finger 


154  GENIUS. 

pointed  out  a  nobler  revenge  when  that  first  cutting  satire  was 
penned ;  and  had  a  better*,  u.  holier  sentiment  than  the  mean 
passion  of  revenge  urged  him  on  to  action  and  governed  his 
after  aspirations,  think  you  that  the  archangel  of  earth  would 
have  stood  less  glorious?  No.  Byron's  spirit  had  a  self- 
rectifying  power,  and  he  could  have  used  it,  but  he  did  not ; 
and,  although  he  has  well  won  the  laurel,  a  poison  more  bit- 
ter than  death  is  dropping  from  every  leaf. 

It  was  not  an  ungrateful  public  that  spread  the  death-couch 
of  Savage  in  a  debtor's  prison,  or  dug  the  suicidal  grave  of 
"  Bristol's  wondrous  boy."  They  were  themselves  ungrate- 
ful ;  they  guarded  not  well  the  gift  they  bore,  and  fell  victims 
to  their  own  misdirected  powers. 

The  common  mind,  never  tempted,  may  wonder  at  the  way- 
wardness of  genius  and  despise  the  weakness  of  its  possessor  ; 
and  the  generous  one  that  sees  the  struggle  and  mourns  the 
wreck,  may  pity  and  apologize ;  and  both  are  in  some  degree 
right.  While  we  admire  and  pity,  we  must  wonder  at  the 
weakness  of  the  strength  that,  subduing  all  else,  failed  beneath 
its  own  weight.  We  know  that  the  gifted  ones  of  earth  often 
have  stronger  passions,  more  irresistible  wills,  and  quicker 
and  more  dangerous  impulses  than  other  men ;  and  for  this 
very  reason  should  they  cultivate  more  assiduously  the  noble 
powers  by  which  these  passions  and  impulses  are  governed. 
Each  individual  possesses  them ;  but  they  must  le  cultivated. 

It  is  our  conception  of  the  mysteries  of  this  gift  which  leads 
us  to  look  back  with  such  peculiar  interest  upon  the  infancy 
of  a  man  of  genius,  expecting  there  to  discover  at  least  some 
flashes  of  the  divine  ray  which  lighted  up  his  after  life.  The 
dusty  memories  of  nurses  and  village  oracles  are  ransacked 
for  anecdotes,  which  oftentimes  neither  the  additions  sug- 
gested by  pride  and  partial  affection,  nor  the  transforming 
medium  of  the  past,  through  which  they  are  viewed,  can  swell 
into  anything  like  superiority  to  the  sayings  and  doings  of 
other  children.  He  who  will  watch  an  intelligent  child 
through  one  day,  will  be  astonished  at  the  bright  flashes  of 
untaught  intellect  which,  could  they  be  abstracted  from  the 


GENIUS.  155 

childish  notions  in  which  they  are  almost  entirely  buried, 
would  be  thought,  by  any  but  him  who  found  them  in  such 
amusing  vicinity,  the  sure  precursors  of  greatness. 

True,  real  genius  often  shows  itself  in  childhood ;  but  that 
it  always  does,  or  that  such  a  development  is  desirable,  may  be 
seriously  questioned.  The  child  who  writes  verses  at  six,  or 
gives  other  indications  of  a  genius  surpassing  his  years,  may 
be  wondered  at  and  admired  as  a  prodigy;  but  the  parent 
ought  to  tremble  to  observe  the  premature  fruit  bursting 
through  the  petals  of  the  not  yet  unfolded  bud.  There  is  an 
evidence  of  disease  in  this,  which,  in  one  way  or  another, 
almost  always  proves  fatal.  This  unnatural  power  wears  out 
itself  or  the  frame  of  its  possessor ;  either  the  mind  or  the 
body  must  fail  under  such  a  rapid  development. 

The  village  pedagogue  in  his  old  age  may  look  about  him 
wonderingly ;  for  it  is  not  unlikely  that  the  least  promising  of 
all  his  flock  takes  the  highest  stand,  while  his  bright,  ever- 
ready  favorite,  that  he  was  sure  would  become  a  great  man, 
does  not  rise  above  mediocrity.  There  is  nothing  strange  or 
capricious  in  this.  It  is  the  sure  result  of  natural  causes,  and 
has-  its  counterpart  in  all  the  works  of  nature — even  in  the 
human  frame.  Rapid  growth  produces  weakness  in  the  bones 
and  sinews ;  and,  in  some  cases,  this  growth  has  been  so  rapid 
as  to  become  an  actual  disease,  and  carry  its  victim  to  the 
grave.  Many  are  the  instances  of  intellectual  growth  so 
rapid  as  to  weaken  the  mind  and  sink  it  even  below  medioc- 
rity, or,  on  the  other  hand,  to  produce  premature  death.  For 
examples  of  this  last  result  we  must  not  go  to  the  tombs  of 
the  early  dead  in  the  old  world,  nor  is  it  necessary  to  visit 
the  banks  of  Saranac,  where  drooped  the  fairest  buds  that 
ever  shed  the  fragrance  of  heaven  upon  earth.  We  can  find 
them  in  our  own  midst.  Many  are  the  gifted  little  beings, 
who,  after  basking  in  the  sunshine  and  rejoicing  among  the 
flowers  for  a  few  short  summers,  pass  away  all  unknown  to 
the  world — leaving  only  the  frail  memorials  of  their  early 
genius  to  soothe,  yet  sadden  even  in  the  moment  of  soothing, 
the  hearts  that  cherished  them. 


156  GENIUS. 

It  would  be  going  too  far  to  censure  those  who  have  the 
guidance  of  sucli  minds ;  but  it  would  save  worlds  of  disap- 
pointment, did  they  know  that  such  promises  are  deceitful 
and  deserving  of  but  little  confidence.  And  sometimes, 
doubtless,  the  poor  victim  might  be  saved  years  of  pain  and 
disease,  and,  perchance,  be  spared  to  the  world  through  a 
long  life,  were  not  the  powers  of  the  mind  forced  by  unnatural 
means  to  expand  too  soon — before  either  the  mind  or  body 
had  acquired  the  strength  and  hardiness  necessary  to  its  own 
healthy  existence.  Many  have  seen  this  evil,  and  endeavored 
to  remedy  it  by  checking  such  unnatural  growth ;  but  this  is 
perhaps  the  most  fatal  error  that  could  be  committed.  The 
mind,  when  it  first  becomes  conscious  of  its  own  capabilities, 
puts  no  limits  to  them,  and  will  only  be  urged  onward  by  each 
barrier  thrown  in  its  way ;  but  a  judicious  hand  may  direct 
its  course,  calm  its  turbulence,  soothe  its  sensitiveness,  and 
teach  it  to  be  its  own  supporter,  without  endangering  in  the 
least  degree  its  freshness  and  originality.  The  power  of  con- 
trolling its  own  impulses  does  not  render  a  nature  tame;  but 
as  it  is  necessary  to  every  person,  how  much  more  so  to  him 
who  has  a  strong,  high  spirit,  that  cannot  be  subdued  by  oth- 
ers ;  that,  spurning  the  control  of  him  who  should  be  its  mas« 
ter,  over-masters  him,  and  is  left  unprotected. 


157 


LILIAS  FANE. 

ABOUT  five  miles  from  Alderbrook  there  is  a  handsome  red 
school-house,  with  a  portico  in  front,  shaded  by  an  immense 
butternut ;  white  window-shutters,  to  keep  out  rogues  at  night, 
but  of  no  use  at  all  during  the  day ;  and  a  handsome  cupola, 
in  which  is  a  bell  of  sufficient  power  to  be  heard,  particularly 
on  still  days,  all  over  the  district.  This  specimen  of  architec- 
ture, being  intended  to  serve  the  double  purpose  of  church  and 
school-house,  is  the  pride  of  the  little  community ;  and,  indeed, 
it  well  may  be,  for  there  is  not  its  equal  in  the  whole  country 
round.  When  the  school-house  was  first  built,  the  neighbors 
all  resolved  to  support  a  "  first-rate  school ;"  and,  for  many 
years,  they  employed  teachers  who  came  well  recommended, 
and  claimed  a  large  salary.  Squire  Mason  said  no  pains  were 
spared, — everything  was  done  that  man  could  do ;  yet,  some- 
how, no  teacher  seemed  to  give  general  satisfaction ;  and  so 
many  left,  either  in  indignation  or  disgrace,  that  "  the  Mason 
school "  gained  the  reputation  of  being  the  most  ungovernable 
in  the  county.  If  truth  must  be  told,  this  was  not  without 
reason;  for  people  who  build  new  school-houses  must,  of  course, 
listen  to  new  doctrines,  and  most  of  the  families  in  "  the  Mason 
district "  had  imbibed  somewhat  extensively  the  notions  preva- 
lent among  reformers  of  the  present  day,  who  think  that  Sol- 
omon was  only  joking  when  he  recommended  the  rod.  At 
last,  after  some  renegade  youngsters  had  summarily  dismissed, 
with  a  broken  head,  a  dark,  square-shouldered,  piratical  look- 
ing man,  who,  in  a  fit  of  desperation,  had  been  chosen  for  his 
enormous  strength,  people  became  quite  discouraged,  and  the 
principal  men  of  the  district,  old  Farmer  Westborn,  Deacon 
Martin,  and  Squire  Mason,  called  a  meeting  to  discuss  affairs. 
Some  proposed  whipping  all  the  boys  round,  and  commencing 

VOL.  II.  14 


15S  LtLIAS    FANE. 

a  new  school ;  others  thought  it  best  to  shut  up  the  house 
entirely,  and  set  the  young  rebels  to  cutting  wood;  while 
Deacon  Martin  was  of  the  opinion  that  if  some  of  the  "  worst 
ones"  could  be  kept  at  home,  there  would  be  no  difficulty 
with  the  rest.  Upon  this  hint  others  spake ;  and  the  meeting 
at  last  decided  on  obtaining  a  female  teacher  to  take  charge 
of  the  little  ones,  the  "big  boys"  being  entirely  voted  out. 
Squire  Mason  himself  had  a  son  who  was  considered  a 
"  rollicking  blade,"  up  to  all  sorts  of  mischief;  and  of  the  half- 
dozen  shock-headed  Westborns,  there  was  not  one  that  had 
failed  to  give  the  former  master  blow  for  blow.  Affairs  were, 
however,  now  to  assume  a  calmer  aspect ;  and  the  meeting 
proceeded  forthwith  to  appoint  a  school-committee,  consisting 
of  Deacon  Martin,  who  had  no  children  of  his  own,  and  was 
consequently  expected  to  take  a  great  interest  in  those  of  his 
neighbors;  Mr.  Fielding,  a  quiet  bachelor  of  thirty-five  or 
thereabout ;  and  one  or  two  others,  who  were  selected  for  the 
sake  of  making  the  numbers  strong,  and  not  for  anything 
that  they  were  expected  to  do.  The  principal  duty  of  the  act- 
ing part  of  the  committee  was  to  obtain  a  teacher ;  but  they 
were  also  to  manage  all  other  affairs  thereunto  pertaining. 

Luckily,  a  lady  had  been  recommended  to  Deacon  Martin, 
during  the  preceding  autumn,  as  a  perfect  prodigy ;  and,  as 
our  school-committee  men  were  quiet  sort  of  people,  who  did 
not  like  to  make  unnecessary  trouble,  a  letter,  superscribed 
"  Miss  Lilias  Fane"  was  thrown  into  the  post-office  box,  which, 
in  due  time,  brought  as  favorable  an  answer  as  could  be 
desired. 

It  was  a  cold,  stormy  morning  in  December,  when  the  pub- 
lic stage-coach  set  down  the  new  schoolmistress  at  the  door 
of  Deacon  Martin's  house.  A  bundle  of  cloaks  and  blankets 
rolled  from  the  opened  door  into  the  hands  of  the  good  deacon, 
who  was  obliged  to  support,  indeed  almost  to  carry,  an  invis- 
ible form  into  the  house,  where  his  good  dame  stood  ready  to 
divest  it  of  all  unnecessary  incumbrances.  At  first,  a  large 
blanket  was  removed,  then  muff  and  cloak,  and  yet  shawl, 
hood,  and  veil  remained ;  and  Mrs.  Martin  could  not  help 


LILUS    FANE.  159 

conjecturing  how  precious  must  be  the  nut  which  was  blessed 
with  so  much  shell.  The  task  of  untying  strings  and  remov- 
ing pins  being  accomplished,  a  volume  of  flaxen  ringlets 
descended  over  a  pair  of  tiny  white  shoulders,  and  a  soft  blue 
eye  stole  timidly  from  its  silken  ambush  up  to  the  face  of  Mrs. 
Martin ;  but  meeting  no  sympathy  there,  it  retreated  behind 
the  drooping  lid  j  and  little  Miss  Fane,  blushing  up  to  the 
pretty  flaxen  waves  that  just  shaded  her  forehead,  smiled,  and 
courtsied,  and  then  crouched  by  the  blazing  fire  like  a  petted 
kitten.  Mrs.  Martin  retreated  involuntarily ;  and  the  deacon 
parted  his  lips,  drew  up  his  eye-brows,  and  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  between  astonishment  and  contempt.  What !  that 
child  assume  the  duties  and  responsibilities  of  a  school  teacher, 
and,  above  all,  in  such  a  school !  Why,  Susan  Harman  could 
put  her  out  of  the  door  with  one  hand,  and  the  very  littlest  boy 
overmaster  her.  There  sat  the  new  schoolmistress,  and  there 
stood  the  deacon  and  his  dame,  gazing  at  her,  perfectly  speech- 
less, when  Mr.  Fielding  drove  up  to  the  door ;  it  being  con- 
sidered his  especial  duty  to  introduce  new  teachers,  and 
particularly  lady  teachers,  to  the  school-house.  Now  the 
bachelor  had  some  very  fine  notions  of  tall,  elegant  figures, 
and  dignified  manners  ;  indeed,  he  had  a  rule  for  everything, 
stepping,  looking,  and  even  thinking ;  and,  consequently,  he 
was  taken  quite  by  surprise  when  his  eye  first  lighted  on  the 
unpretending  little  school-mistress.  Her  figure  was  slight,  and 
exceedingly  fragile,  and  her  face  the  very  perfection  of  infan- 
tile sweetness.  This  was  all  that  Mr.  Fielding  had  an  oppor- 
tunity to  observe,  as  she  stood  before  him  in  graceful  confusion, 
replying  to  his  very  formal  salutation,  and  answering  his  still 
more  formal  questions  about  the  weather,  the  state  of  the  roads, 
and  the  time  of  her  arrival.  The  bachelor,  however,  was  con- 
fident that  Miss  Fane  was  a  very  incompetent  school-teacher ; 
and  Miss  Fane  was  quite  as  confident  that  the  bachelor  was 
a  very  incompetent  beau.  First,  he  gave  her  what  the  little 
lady  considered  an  impertinent  stare,  as  a  school-committee- 
man  has  a  right  to  do ;  then  he  npde  a  great  many  common- 
place remarks,  as  a  man  that  wishes  to  appear  very  dignified 


160  LILIAS    FANE. 

will  do ;  and  then  he  desired  to  see  Deacon  Martin  in  private, 
as  a  man  when  he  wishes  to  let  you  know  that  he  is  about  to 
discuss  your  character  should  do.  Poor  Lilias  Fane !  with 
all  her  simplicity  she  was  not  deficient  in  discernment,  and 
she  felt  piqued  at  the  manners  of  the  people,  particularly  Mr. 
Fielding,  whose  real  superiority  she  instantly  detected,  despite 
of  the  clumsy  awkwardness  behind  which  he  managed  to  hide 
himself.  So,  tossing  back  her  sunny  curls,  and  calling  for 
hood  and  shawl,  in  spite  of  all  Mrs.  Martin's  entreaties  to  the 
contrary,  she  was  half-way  to  the  school-house  before  the  gen- 
tlemen decided  that  they  could  do  nothing  less  than  give  her 
a  trial.  It  was  with  the  utmost  surprise  that  the  bachelor 
heard  of  the  flight  of  his  bonny  bird ;  for  he  was  the  greatest 
man  in  the  district,  and  every  one  was  but  too  much  delighted 
to  gain  his  notice.  He  owned  a  fine  cottage  close  by  the  Maple 
Grove,  with  beautiful  grounds  about  it,  and  every  elegance 
that  wealth  could  command  and  taste  dictate  within  ;  and  there 
he  resided,  with  his  mother  and  a  little  nephew,  in  very  envi- 
able quiet.  It  was  evident  that  his  knowledge  of  the  world 
was  thorough,  and  he  had,  probably,  at  some  period  of  his  life, 
taken  a  part  in  its  tumult ;  but  the  retirement  of  private  life 
best  suited  him,  and  he  had  for  several  years  buried  the  most 
perfect  specimen  of  a  gentleman  of  the  old  school  extant  among 
the  rural  luxuries  of  Grove  Cottage.  Here,  however,  none  of 
the  punctilios,  on  which  he  set  so  high  a  value,  were  omitted, 
for  he  was  too  thoroughly  a  gentleman  to  throw  aside  the 
character  when  behind  the  scenes ;  and  all  honored  him  for 
his  strict  integrity,  as  well  as  intellectual  superiority.  Mr. 
Fielding  had  not  a  particle  of  misanthropy  in  his  composition  ; 
so,  notwithstanding  a  secret  touch  of  exclusive  feeling,  arising 
probably  from  a  consciousness  of  possessing  but  little  in  com- 
mon with  those  around  him,  he  mingled  with  the  people  of 
the  neighborhood  as  though  nothing  but  a  certain  degree  of 
coldness  and  personal  dignity  prevented  him  from  being  on  a 
perfect  equality  with  them ;  and  he  exhibited  so  much  rea 
interest  in  all  that  concern*!  their  welfare,  thnt  he  possessed 
their  entire  confidence. 


LILIAS    FANE.  161 

When  Mr.  Fielding  learned  that  the  little  lady  had  gone 
away  alone,  he  looked  surprised ;  but,  recollecting  how  bashful 
she  had  appeared  when  standing  in  his  august  presence,  he 
at  once  saw  the  matter  in  a  more  pleasing  light ;  so,  calling 
on  Deacon  Martin  to  bestow  his  burly  corpus  in  the  seat 
intended  for  pretty  Lilias  Fane,  the  two  committee-men  pro- 
ceeded leisurely  toward  the  school-house. 

In  the  mean  time  poor  Lilias  was  trudging  through  the  snow, 
her  nether  lip  pouting  after  the  most  approved  style  of  angry 
beauties,  and  her  little  heart  throbbing  with  a  variety  of  con- 
tending emotions,  none  of  which  were  actually  pleasurable, 
except  the  one  excited  by  a  little  pile  of  silver  which  she  saw 
in  prospect — the  fruit  of  her  own  labor.  At  thought  of  this, 
she  brushed  away  the  tear  that  sparkled  on  her  lashes,  and, 
drawing  up  her  slight  figure  with  an  air  of  determination, 
stepped  boldly  and  decidedly  into  the  portico  and  placed  her 
hand  on  the  latch  of  the  door.  This  done,  she  paused ;  the 
little  heart,  but  a  moment  before  so  resolute,  fluttered  tumul- 
tuously,  the  head  drooped,  the  eyes  brimmed  over,  and  the 
fingers  extended  so  firmly,  now  quivered  with  agitation.  Poor 
Lilias  Fane  !  what  would  she  not  have  given  to  feel  her 
mother's  arms  about  her,  and  weep  on  her  sympathizing 
bosom. 

Farmer  Westborn,  and  Squire  Mason,  and  the  rest  of  the 
school-meeting  men,  were  in  earnest  when  they  decided  that 
the  "big  boys"  should  not  be  allowed  to  attend  school;  but 
they  had  been  in  earnest  a  great  many  times  before  ;  so  the 
boys  knew  perfectly  well  what  it  meant,  and  were  now  on 
hand,  preparing  for  the  reception  of  the  new  teacher.  Little 
did  poor  Lilias  Fane  imagine  what  stout  hearts  awaited  her 
entrance,  or  her  courage  would  not  have  been  prompt  to  return ; 
but  the  thought  of  home,  her  widowed  mother,  and  helpless 
little  brothers  and  sisters,  in  connection  with  the  all-important 
salary,  nerved  her  up.  Again  she  erected  her  head  and  wiped 
away  the  tears ;  then,  throwing  open  the  door,  she  walked 
quietly  and  firmly  into  the  room.  What  a  spectacle  !  children 
of  all  sizes,  from  the  little  aproned  chap,  hardly  yet  from  the 


162  LIUAS    FANE. 

cradle,  up  to  the  height  of  the  new  schoolmistress,  and  youths 
towering  far  above  her,  in  almost  the  pride  of  manhood,  turned 
their  faces  toward  the  door,  and  stood  gaping  in  silent  aston- 
ishment. There  were  Susan  Harman,  and  Sally  Jones,  and 
Nabby  Woods,  all  older  than  the  schoolmistress,  and  several 
others  who  were  larger ;  and  at  the  extremity  of  the  room 
stood  Alfred  Mason,  a  man  in  size  if  not  in  form,  surrounded 
by  the  six  shock-headed  Westborns,  Bill  Blount,  Philip  Clute, 
and  Nehemiah  Strong,  all  school  rowdies  of  the  first  water. 
Well  might  they  stare,  for  such  a  vision  never  met  their  eyes 
before;  and  we'll  might  bright  Lilias  smile  at  the  looks  of 
wonder  that  greeted  her  at  every  turn.  A  smile,  if  it  is  a 
perfectly  natural  one,  full  of  mirthfulness,  and  slightly  spiced 
with  mischief,  is  the  best  of  all  passports  to  a  young  heart ; 
and  not  a  face  was  there  in  the  whole  room  but  caught  the 
infection,  and  answered  with  a  bashful  grin  the  twinkle  of  the 
little  maiden's  eye  and  the  curl  of  her  lip.  Oh !  sadly  did 
naughty  Lilias  compromise  the  dignity  of  the  schoolmistress  ; 
but  what  she  lost  in  one  respect  was  more  than  made  up  in 
another.  Nabby  Woods  went  about  brushing  the  slippery 
dried  peas  from  the  floor,  lest  the  smiling  fairy  of  a  new  school- 
dame  should  be  made  their  victim,  as  had  been  duly  planned 
for  a  week  beforehand ;  and  Philip  Clute,  first  glancing  at 
Alfred  Mason  for  approbation,  stepped  awkwardly  forward  and 
put  a  whole  chair  in  the  place  of  the  broken  one  that  had  been 
stationed  before  the  desk  for  the  benefit  of  the  new  teacher ; 
thus  making  himself  the  first  to  receive  her  cheerful  salutation. 
Philip  had  never  been  known  to  shrink  before  birchen  rod  or 
cherry  ferule ;  but  Lilias  Fane,  with  her  merry  blue  eye  and 
face  full  of  kindness  and  gentleness,  half-hidden  in  the  mirthful 
dimples  which  played  over  it — sweet  Lilias  Fane  was  a  dif- 
ferent thing.  She  could  not  be  looked  upon  with  indifference, 
and  poor  Philip  twisted  himself  into  as  many  shapes  as  a 
cloud-wreath  in  a  tempest,  or  a  captured  eel,  and  turned  as 
red  as  the  blood-beets  in  his  father's  cellar.  On  passed  the 
bright-faced  Lilias  around  the  room,  nodding  to  one,  smiling 
to  another,  and  addressing  some  cheerful  remark  to  those  who 


LILIAS    FANE.  163 

seemed  a  little  afraid  of  her,  until  she  reached  the  group  over 
which  the  redoubtable  Mason  presided.  By  this  time  she  had 
gained  all  'hearts  ;  for  had  n't  she  said  we  when  talking  to  the 
"big  girls,"  as  though  she  didn't  feel  herself  a  bit  above 
them?  and  hadn't  she  patted  the  heads  of  the  younger  ones 
with  her  pretty  little  hand,  in  a  way  which  proved  beyond  the 
possibility  of  a  doubt,  that  she  was  a  decided  enemy  to  hair- 
pulling  ?  Alfred  Mason  had  seen  it  all,  and,  to  prove  to  the 
new  schoolmistress  that  he  was  a  little  superior  to  the  West- 
borns  &  Co.,  he  advanced  three  steps  and  made  a  bow  as 
much  like  Mr.  Fielding's  as  he  could.  This  done,  he  passed 
his  fingers  through  his  shining  black  hair,  twitched  his  shirt- 
collar,  and  elevated  head  and  shoulders  after  a  very  manly 
fashion,  as  though  silently  resolving  not  to  be  afraid  of  any- 
thing this  side  of  fairy  land,  though  appearing  in  the  shape  of 
Titania  herself.  But  bewitching,  roguish,  naughty  Miss 
Fane  did  bewilder  him  notwithstanding ;  for,  having  always 
considered  himself  a  rascally  scape-grace  -  of  a  boy,  bound  to 
do  as  much  mischief  as  he  could,  he  suddenly  found  himself 
transformed  into  a  man ;  and  a  beautiful  creature,  with  a  child's 
blushes  and  a  woman's  smiles,  asking  him  questions  in  the 
most  respectful  tone,  hoping  that  she  should  be  seconded  by 
the  young  gentlemen  before  her  in  all  her  efforts,  and  insinu- 
ating, very  gracefully  and  very  sweetly,  how  much  she  relied 
upon  them  for  success  in  her  present  undertaking.  The 
smile,  the  tone  of  voice,  the  manner,  combined  with  the  flat- 
tering address,  were  perfectly  irresistible ;  and  Alfred  Mason, 
after  perpetrating  another  bow,  addressed  a  few  whispered 
words  to  his  companions,  and  walked  away  to  a  seat.  His 
example  was  immediately  followed  by  the  whole  school,  and 
Miss  Fane  was  left  standing  in  the  midst  of  subjects  as  loyal 
as  any  sovereign  would  care  to  reign  over.  At  this  agreeable 
crisis  the  door  opened,  and  it  may  well  be  believed  that  in 
every  dimple  of  Lilias  Fane's  young  face  lurked  a  roguish 
smile,  as  her  eye  lighted  on  Mr.  Fielding  and  Deacon  Martin. 
The  bachelor  observed  it,  and  he  was  "  the  least  bit  in  the 
world"  disconcerted,  while  the  deacon  raised  his  eye-brows 


164  LILIAS    FANE. 

and  shrugged  his  shoulders  more  emphatically  than  ever,  but 
not  contemptuously.  If  the  two  committee-men  had  been 
astonished  before,  they  were  doubly  so  now ;  and  it  was  with 
a  much  more  respectful  air  than  he  had  at  first  assumed,  that 
Mr.  Fielding  saluted  the  little  lady,  and  apologized  for  his  pre- 
vious neglect. 

"  You  have  undertaken  a  very  heavy  task,  Miss  Fane,"  he 
remarked,  in  a  tone  which,  from  the  proximity  of  the  audience 
on  the  seats,  was  necessarily  low,  and  thus  seemingly  confi- 
dential. 

Thoughtless  Lilias  !  she  shook  her  head  and  smiled.  "  It 
is  a  dreadful  responsible  station,"  chimed  in  the  deacon. 

A  shade  of  seriousness  flitted  over  the  face  of  Lilias,  and 
then  she  smiled  again. 

"  Our  school  is  considered  a  very  difficult  one,"  observed 
the  bachelor. 

"  I  apprehend  no  difficulty  at  all,"  Lilias  replied,  in  a  tone 
of  gayety. 

"  But,  Miss  Fane,"  persisted  the  deacon,  "  it  is  my  duty  to 
undeceive  you  as  to  the  character  of  our  school." 

Still  the  little  lady  smiled  confidently. 

"  Very  difficult  to  manage,  I  can  assure  you,"  added  the 
bachelor. 

Lilias  glanced  around  the  room  with  a  triumphant,  incred- 
ulous air,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  It  seems  to  me  just  the  easiest 
thing  in  the  world,"  (the  saucy  little  gypsy  !)  —  but  she  did  not 
say  it.  Her  only  reply  was  to  beg  the  privilege  of  consulting 
two  such  able  advisers,  should  she  chance  to  meet  with  unex- 
pected difficulties.  The  deacon  received  the  compliment  gra- 
ciously, not  probably  observing  a  touch  of  sarcasm,  more  dis- 
coverable in  the  dancing  blue  eye  than  in  the  voice ;  but  Mr. 
Fielding  looked  displeased,  bowed  stiffly,  and,  after  a  few 
formal  words,  took  his  leave,  followed  by  the  worthy  deacon. 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder,"  remarked  Deacon  Martin,  after  they 
were  seated  in  the  sleigh,  "I  shouldn't  wonder  if  this  little 
Miss  Fane  made  a  pretty  good  teacher  after  all.  It's  won- 
derful that  the  children  should  be  so  orderly  this  morning." 


LILIAS    FANE.  165 

Mr.  Fielding  gave  his  head  a  twitch,  something  between  a 
shake  and  a  nod,  and  looked  knowing.  It  was  evident  that 
he  could  say  a  great  deal  if  he  chose.  This  non-committal 
movement  is  Wisdom's  favorite  cloak ;  and  so  much  in  vogue 
is  it,  that  it  sometimes  even  passes  current  when  the  cloaked 
is  missing. 

For  that  day  at  least  Lilias  Fane  was  happy.  She  smiled 
and  was  smiled  upon.  And  she  began  to  think  it  was  just 
the  pleasantest  thing  in  the  world  to  be  the  presiding  genius 
of  such  a  place,  exercising  uncontrolled  power,  dispensing 
smiles  and  sunshine  at  will,  beloved  and  loving.  But  her  day 
of  darkness  was  to  come.  Scarce  a  week  had  passed  before 
there  were  indications  of  a  revolt  among  some  of  her  subjects ; 
and  she  was  alarmed  to  find  that  there  were  difficulties 
which  a  smile  and  a  loving  word  could  not  heal.  At  home, 
her  dear  delightful  home,  she  had  been  taught  to  believe  them 
a  universal  balm  —  oil  for  the  wildest  wave,  a  hush  for  the 
deadliest  tempest.  But  yet,  never  was  schoolmistress  idol- 
ized like  darling  Lilias  Fane.  Even  the  hearts  of  the  West- 
borns  began  to  melt  beneath  the  glances  of  her  beaming  eye, 
and  Alfred  Mason  was  her  never-failing  friend  and  champion. 
Poor  Alf  Mason  !  Sad  was  the  reputation  he  bore  in  the 
district ;  and  nobody  would  believe  he  was  in  earnest  when 
he  behaved  properly ;  but  he  was  in  reality  more  given  to 
mirth  than  malice,  fonder  of  fun  than  real  mischief —  and  he 
could  see  no  fun  at  all  in  annoying  sweet  Miss  Fane.  But 
she  was  annoyed  nevertheless,  not  so  much  by  her  pupils,  as 
by  remarks  which  were  constantly  reaching  her  concerning 
her  youth,  inexperience,  and  consequent  inefficiency.  It  was 
said  that  she  was  a  child  among  the  children  ;  and  so  she  was, 
but  how  could  she  help  it  —  the  bright  pet  Lilias  !  Scarce 
sixteen  summers  had  burnished  her  fair  locks,  and  her  heart 
was  full  of  childish  impulses.  It  was  said  that  she  had  no 
dignity  of  manner,  and  stood  among  her  pupils  as  one  of  them 
—  faults  which  she  was  but  too  conscious  of  possessing.  As 
well  might  you  look  for  dignity  in  a  humming-bird,  or  a  favvn, 
as  in  Lilias  Fane  —  the  darling !  She  loved  her  pupils 


166  L1LIAS    FANE. 

dearly,  and  could  not  but  betray  her  interest.  She  had  too 
many  sympathies  in  common  with  them  to  stand  aloof  in  joy 
or  sorrow  j  and  in  the  loved  and  the  loving  were  merged  the 
teacher  and  the  taught.  It  was  even  said  that  her  voice  had 
been  known  to  mingle  in  the  merry  shout  that  sometimes 
arose  from  the  school-room ;  and  there  must  have  been  some 
truth  in  the  report ;  for  her  pupils  could  not  have  had  the 
heart  to  laugh  when  she  was  serious.  In  truth,  Lilias  Fane 
was  a  strange  teacher ;  though  she  may  have  taught  the  lore 
most  needed  —  those  heart-lessons,  richer  than  all  the  theories 
of  all  the  schools  united.  In  her  other  lessons  she  was  capri- 
cious. She  taught  what  she  loved,  and  that  she  made  her 
pupils  love ;  but  what  was  dry  and  difficult  she  passed  over, 
as  in  studying  she  had  been  allowed  to  do  by  her  too  indul- 
gent governess.  Yet  she  was  unwearied  in  her  efforts,  and 
never  thought  of  self  when  the  good  of  her  pupils  was  con- 
cerned ;  and  so,  despite  the  faults  in  her  system  of  education, 
her  school  made  rapid  improvement.  But  no  degree  of 
improvement  was  sufficient  to  satisfy  those  who  detected  these 
faults ;  and  soon  the  war  of  words  ran  high  for  and  against 
the  poor  schoolmistress,  whose  only  offences  were  too  much 
beauty,  too  immature  youth,  and  a  too  kind  heart.  These 
things  could  not  occur  without  Miss  Fane's  knowledge  ;  for 
her  young  friends,  in  their  mistaken  zeal,  repeated  every  word 
to  her,  and  she  (poor  simple-hearted  child  !)  was  undignified 
enough  to  listen  to  their  representations,  and  receive  their 
expressions  of  sympathy.  They  were  all  the  friends  she  had. 
Thus  passed  one  third  of  Lilias  Fane's  term  of  service,  in 
alternate  storm  and  sunshine,  till  at  last  Farmer  Westborn 
took  a  decided  step;  and,  in  spite  of  young  shock-heads' 
remonstrances,  removed  all  of  his  six  children  from  school. 
Sad  was  the  face  poor  Lilias  Fane  exhibited  on  this  occasion ; 
and  all  of  her  flock  were  sad  from  sympathy.  Looks,  some 
of  sorrow  and  some  of  indignation,  were  exchanged  among 
the  elder  pupils  ;  and  the  younger  ones  gazed  in  silent  won- 
der on  the  flushed  face  and  tearful  eye  of  her,  who,  neverthe- 
less, would  now  and  then  give  them  a  smile,  from  sheer  habit. 


L1LIAS    FANE.  167 

At  last  the  day  ended,  and  sad,  and  low,  and  kinder  even  than 
usual,  were  the  good-nights  of  the  sympathizing  group,  as,  one 
by  one,  they  disappeared  through  the  door,  till  the  poor  little 
school-mistress  was  left  alone;  and  then  she  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands  and  wept. 

"  I  wouldn't  mind  it,  Miss  Fane,"  said  a  timid,  hut  sympa- 
thizing voice  close  hy  her  ear. 

"  How  can  I  help  it,  Alfred  ?  "  asked  weeping  Lilias,  with- 
out raising  her  head ;  "  Mr.  Westborn  must  have  a  sad  opinion 
of  me,  or  he  never — " 

"  Mr.  Westborn  is  a  fool !  the  meanest  man  — " 

"  Alfred !" 

"  You  don't  know  him,  Miss  Fane,  or  you  would  say  so  too. 
But  don't  cry  any  more  —  don't ;  come  over  and  see  Mary 
— you  have  true  friends,  Miss  Fane — you — they — "  and 
here  Alfred  stopped  short ;  for,  although  particularly  anxious 
to  console  Miss  Fane,  he  seemed  to  be  suffering  under  a  most 
painful  embarrassment.  The  gentle,  indeed  touching  tone  of 
voice  was  not  lost  on  poor  Lilias ;  although  there  seemed  to 
be  some  reason  why  she  should  not  listen  to  it ;  for  she  raised 
her  head,  and,  with  more  calmness  than  she  could  have  been 
expected  to  command,  replied,  "  You  are  very  kind,  Alfred, 
and  I  thank  you,  but — " 

"  I  understand  you,  Miss  Fane,"  interrupted  the  youth, 
somewhat  proudly ;  "  kindness  should  not  be  too  obtrusive." 

"  No,  Alfred,  you  mistake  me.  I  prize  the  sympathy  of 
my  friends  but  too  highly ;  and  it  is  gratifying  to  know  that 
all  my  pupils,  if  no  others,  are  of  the  number." 

"Yes,  they  all  are — yet — Miss — Miss  Fane — ,"  and 
Alfred  stammered  on,  more  embarrassed  than  ever. 

"  I  can  assure  them  that  their  kindness  will  be  remembered 
most  gratefully,  and  their  friendship  warmly  returned,"  added 
Miss  Fane,  with  a  gentle  dignity,  which  prevented  familiarity, 
while  it  soothed. 

Alfred  Mason  stood  for  a  few  moments  irresolute,  and 
Lilias  resumed.  "  To  you,  in  particular,  Alfred,  am  I  deeply 
indebted.  You  have  defended  me  in  my  absence,  assisted 


168  LILIAS   FANE. 

me  in  school,  both  by  your  example  and  counsel ;  and  have 
performed  the  thousand  little  services  which  have  contributed 
thus  far  to  make  my  time  here  among  strangers  pass  so  : 
ably.  I  shall  never  forget  you,  kind,  generous  friend  that  you 
are  !  And  Mary,  too  —  my  own  brother  and  sister  could  not 
have  watched  more  carefully  over  my  comfort  and  happiness. 
I  have  much  to  say  to  you  of  this,  but  not  now.  To-night  I 
have  subjects  of  thought  less  pleasant,  and  must  be  alone." 

"  I  shouldn't  like  to  trouble  you,  Miss  Fane,  but  I  came  to 
tell  you  there  is  to  be  a  school-meeting  to-night.  Oh,  how  I 
wish  I  were  a  man !  in  influence,  I  mean,  for  I  know  that  I 
have  a  man's  soul,  a  — " 

"  What  is  the  school-meeting  for,  Alfred  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Fielding — cross  old  bachelor  ! — but  I  won't  tell 
you  anything  about  it — it's  too  provoking  !" 

"I  shouldn't  expect  any  good  from  Mr.  Fielding,"  said 
Lilias,  with  an  unusual  degree  of  acrimony.  Why  so  exceed- 
ingly indignant  at  him,  when,  if  he  had  not  sympathized,  he 
surely  had  done  thee  no  injury,  gentle  Lilias  ? 

"  He  !  no  danger  of  his  doing  good  anywhere  —  though  he 
says  he  'pities  the  young  lady' — pities!  But  who  do  you 
think  he  wants  to  get  in  your  place  ?  " 

Lilias  stood  aghast,  for  in  all  her  troubles  the  thought  of 
losing  her  situation  had  not  occurred  to  her ;  and  now  they 
had  actually  planned  her  removal,  and  were  about  appointing 
a  successor.  "  Who,  Alfred?"  she  gasped,  tremblingly. 

"  Would  you  believe  it,  Miss  Fane — that  ugly,  cross,  vin- 
egar-faced Miss  Digby — it  is  too  bad!  At  any  rnte,  they 
will  rue  the  day  they  get  her  here.  What  is  the  matter,  Miss 
Fane  ?  you  are  as  pale  as  death." 

"  Nothing — go  now,  Alfred — you  shall  tell  me  more  to- 
morrow." 

Well  might  young  Lilias  Fane  turn  pale,  poor  child !  at 
this  intelligence;  for  at  that  very  moment  she  held  her 
mother's  last  letter  in  her  bosom ;  and  in  that  letter  had  the 
fond,  hoping  mother  rejoiced  over  the  bright  pro?portp  of  her 
darling,  called  her  the  guardian  angel  of  the  family,  and  hoped 


LILIAS    FANE.  169 

that  through  her  efforts,  comfort  might  again  be  restored  to 
their  little  home.  And  now  to  be  obliged  to  return  in  dis- 
grace, disappoint  the  expectations  of  that  doting  parent,  and 
become  a  burden  where  she  should  be  a  helper,  was  too  much 
— more  than  she  could  bear.  Alfred  obeyed  her,  and  retired 
in  sorrowful  silence ;  and  poor  Lilias,  pressing  one  small  hand 
upon  her  aching  head,  paced  the  floor  in  a  bitterness  of  spirit 
that  she  had  never  felt  before.  We  may  be  angels  while  love 
makes  an  Eden  for  us ;  but  when  we  go  out  among  the  thorns, 
we  find  another  spirit  rising  up,  and  learn,  alas !  that  we  are 
not  yet  all  meekness  and  purity.  The  disheartening  lesson 
was  embittering  still  more  the  spirit  of  Lilias,  as  she  paced  up 
and  down  her  deserted  room.  But  why  should  Mr.  Fielding 
be  so  unkind  ?  how  had  she  offended  him  ?  These  questions 
puzzled  her  most  painfully ;  and  then,  heavily  and  hopelessly, 
came  thoughts  of  the  future.  What  should  she  do  ?  She 
was  sure  of  the  sympathy  of  good-natured  Mary  Mason ;  but 
such  a  friend' was  scarce  sufficient  for  the  exigency.  There 
was  no  one  to  advise  her,  no  one  who,  acquainted  with  all  the 
circumstances  of  the  case,  could  say  what  was  for  the  best ; 
no  one  even  who  could  be  made  to  comprehend  her  feelings. 
And  she  longed  to  pour  out  all  her  troubles  in  some  friendly 
bosom.  Once  the  thought  of  Alfred  Mason  crossed  her  mind, 
but  she  only  muttered,  blushing  even  there,  "  kind,  silly 
boy  !"  and  again  recurred  to  the  one  grand  question — what 
should  she  do  ?  In  the  midst  of  these  reflections,  a  footstep 
sounded  on  the  threshold,  and  before  she  had  time  to  wonder 
who  was  there,  Mr.  Fielding  stood  before  her.  The  surprise 
seemed  mutual ;  but  Lilias,  probably  from- her  sense  of  injury, 
was  the  first  to  recover  her  presence  of  mind.  She  crushed  a 
whole  shower  of  bright  crystals  that  were  in  the  act  of 
descending,  elevated  her  head,  and  with  a  slight  courtesy,  was 
proceeding  to  adjust  her  cloak,  when  Mr.  Fielding  approached 
her. 

"  Excuse  me,  Miss  Fane,  for  this  intrusion  ;  I  did  not 
expect  to  find  you  here,  but  since  I  have,  perhaps  you  will 
favor  me  with  a  few  moments'  conversation." 

VOL.  II  15 


170  LILIAS    FA.NC. 

"  With  pleasure,  sir,  in  a  proper  place,"  said  Lilias,  keep- 
ing down  her  anger  with  a  strong  effort.  "  I  presume  Deacon 
Martin  will  be  happy  to  see  you  ?  " 

"  It  is  you  that  I  wish  to  see,  Miss  Fane,  and  for  that,  I 
shall  have  no  good  opportunity  at  Deacon  Martin's." 

"  Your  communication  must  be  of  consequence,"  said 
Lilias,  endeavoring  to  assume  an  air  of  carelessness. 

"  You  are  right  —  it  is  of  some  consequence  to  you,  and  so, 
of  course,  to  your  friends." 

"  Among  which,  I  am  well  aware,  that  I  have  not  the  honor 
to  reckon  Mr.  Fielding,"  said  Lilias,  provoked  beyond  endur- 
ance, by  this  seeming  duplicity.  The  bachelor  was  evidently 
the  most  imperturbable  of  mortals.  The  little  maiden's  eye 
flashed,  and  her  cheeks  were  crimson  with  indignation ;  but 
not  a  muscle  of  his  face  moved ;  he  neither  looked  confused 
nor  angry,  but  in  his  usual  tone,  replied,  "  I  will  not  contend 
with  you  upon  that  point,  Miss  Fane,  for  mere  professions  are 
empty  things.  However,  it  is  my  wish  to  act  the  part  of  a 
friend  by  you  now." 

"  You  will  have  an  opportunity  to  exhibit  your  friendship 
in  the  school-meeting,  this  evening,"  said  Lilias,  with  a  curl- 
ing lip ;  "  and,  if  I  am  rightly  informed,  it  is  your  intention  to 
do  so." 

Strange  to  say,  Mr.  Fielding  was  not  yet  demolished,  but 
with  increasing  sang  froid  he  replied,  "  If  you  had  received 
less  information  from  injudicious  persons,  it  might  have  been 
better  for  you,  and  most  assuredly  would  have  saved  you 
much  unhappiness." 

The  little  lady  trotted  her  foot  in  vexation,  for  she  knew 
his  remark  to  be  true  ;  meantime,  muttering  something  about 
even  injudicious  friends  being  preferable  to  the  most  punctil- 
ious enemies. 

"  There  I  beg  leave  to  dissent,"  said  Mr.  Fielding,  with 
perfect  coolness;  "lionorable  enemies — " 

"  Excuse  me,  sir,"  interrupted  Lilias,  losing  all  patience. 
"  I  am  not  in  a  mood  for  discussion  to-night,  and  you  —  it  is 
almost  time  for  the  school-meeting." 


LILIAS    FANE.  171 

"  The  school-meeting  has  been  deferred." 

"  Deferred  ! "  Miss  Fane's  young  face  brightened,  like  the 
sky  with  an  April  sun-flash,  for  what  might  not  a  little  more 
time  do  for  her  ?  and  she  extended  her  hand  involuntarily, 
while  a  "  forgive  me"  hovered  on  her  smile-wreathed  lips. 

"  It  will  not  take  place  till  next  week ;  and  in  the  mean 
time,"  continued  Mr.  Fielding,  hesitatingly,  "  it  would — if  I 
might — if  you  would  but  have  confidence  in  my  motives, 
Miss  Fane,  I  would  venture  a  piece  of  advice." 

"  To  which  I  am  bound  to  listen,"  said  Lilias,  gayly,  and 
turning  upon  the  adviser  a  face  radiant  with  happiness ;  for 
the  week's  respite  had  quite  restored  her  fallen  spirits. 

"Bound?" 

"  From  choice,  I  mean,"  said  Lilias,  with  a  smile  which 
made  the  bachelor  quite  forget  that  she  had  been  angry. 

"  Then  I  will  talk  freely  as  to  a  friend — a  sister,"  and  Mr. 
Fielding  spoke  in  a  low  tone,  and  hurried  his  words,  as 
though  the  ice  might  be  beginning  to  thaw.  "  Your  position 
must  be  a  very  painful  one.  You  have,  I  know,  gained  all 
hearts,  but  the  judgments  of  many  are  against  you,  and  the 
prejudices  of  more.  You  have  many  professed  friends,  and 
they  do  indeed  feel  kindly  toward  you ;  but  each  has  some 
petty  interest  to  serve,  some  feeling  of  rivalry  to  gratify,  and 
there  is  not  one  among  them,  in  whom  you  can  place  implicit 
confidence." 

"  I  know  it !  I  have  felt  it  all,  only  too  deeply,  too  bitterly  ! 
but  what  can  I  do  ?  Oh,  if  my  mother  could  be  here  ! "  and, 
overcome  by  the  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling,  Lilias  burst  into 
tears. 

"  Then  go  to  her,  Miss  Fane — go  to-morrow — her  disin- 
terestedness you  cannot  doubt." 

"  Nor  is  there  room  for  doubt  in  the  case  of  another  per- 
son," retorted  Lilias,  in  a  tone  of  bitterness.  "  You  have  at 
least  the  merit  of  dealing  openly,  Mr.  Fielding." 

"  You  distrust  me  without  cause,  Miss  Fane,"  said  the 
bachelor,  warmly ;  "  it  is  to  save  you  pain,  that  I  recommend 
this  course  ;  and  it  was  in  the  hope  of  inducing  you  to  with- 


172  L1L1AS    FASE. 

draw,  that  I  persuaded  them  to  defer  the  meeting.  We  have 
coarse  natures  here,  and  you  must  not  come  in  contact  with 
them.  Allow  me  to  advise  you,  and  do  not  enter  your  school 
again." 

Poor  Lilias  Fane !  the  net  was  about  her,  and  flutter  as  she 
would,  she  could  not  get  free.  "  Then  they  intend  to  dismiss 
me  ?"  she  asked,  despondingly. 

"  If  you  give  them  the  opportunity,  I  fear  they  will." 

"  What  have  I  done,  Mr.  Fielding,  to  deserve  this  ?  " 

"  Everything  that  is  good  and  praiseworthy  ;  hut  a  district 
school  is  not  the  place  for  one  like  you.  A  school-teacher 
must  not  be  too  sensitive — she  must  know  how  to  endure,  to 
return  buffetings." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Fielding,  I  am  sure  it  is  not  necessary  for  a 
school-teacher  to  be  bad  or  heartless.  I  know  what  unfits  me 
for  the  place  —  I  have  too  little  character — too  little  self- 
dependence; — but  I  should  improve  —  I  am  sure  I  should.  I 
cannot  leave  my  school  until  I  am  obliged  to  leave  it,  as  per- 
haps even  you  will  do  me  the  justice  to  believe  ;  I  would  have 
undertaken  it  only  from  necessity.  Even  a  week  is  of  impor- 
tance to  me." 

"I  have  notxfelt  at  liberty  to  inquire  your  motive,  .Mi-s 
Fane,  but  I  have  felt  assured  that  it  was  no  unworthy  one, 
and  your  partial  failure  is  attended  with  no  disgrace.  Indeed," 
and  there  was  so  much  sincerity  in  Mr.  Fielding's  words,  that 
he  did  not  think  how  warmly  he  was  praising,  "I  have 
watched  your  patience,  your  industry,  your  gentleness  and 
sweetness,  with  admiration;  and  it  is  to  the  very  qualities 
most  admirable,  that  your  want  of  success  may  be  traced." 

"  And  so  I  must  go  ! "  exclaimed  Lilias,  with  a  fresh  gush 
of  feeling.  "  My  poor,  poor  mother !  Indeed,  Mr.  Fielding 
— but  you  must  be  my  friend,  and  I  will  do  as  you  bid 
me,  for  there  is  nobody  in  the  world  to  say  just  what  I  ought 
to  do." 

The  bachelor  was  almost  as  much  agitated  as  poor  Lilias 
Fane.  Fresh  interest  seemed  to  be  gathering  around  the 
little  school-mistress,  and  yet  he  had  loo  much  delicacy  to 


LILIAS    FANE.  173 

press  inquiries,  which  at  any  other  time  would  seem  imperti- 
nent. There  was,  however,  a  better  understanding  between 
the  school-committee-man  and  the  lady-teacher ;  and  so 
another  half  hour  was  passed  in  conversation  without  a  single 
angry  word,  after  which,  the  two  emerged  from  the  school- 
house  together,  and  taking  a  seat  in  the  sleigh,  proceeded 
toward  Deacon  Martin's. 

That  night,  bright  young  Lilias  Fane,  for  almost  the  first 
time  in  her  life,  went  to  her  pillow  with  an  aching  heart, 
though  caused  by  a  seeming  trifle  in  comparison  with  her 
other  sources  of  sorrow.  Nurtured  in  the  lap  of  luxury,  made 
beggars  by  the  death  of  a  husband  and  father,  who  was  an 
object  of  almost  idolatry  to  a  loving,  helpless  group  ;  visited 
by  disappointment,  neglect  and  sickness,  the  little  family  had 
struggled  on  and  been  happy.  They  had  stemmed  the  tor- 
rent together.  But  Mrs.  Fane's  exertions  were  wasting  life. 
Lilias  was  the  eldest  child,  and  her  only  dependence.  What 
could  the  delicate,  fragile  young  girl  do,  to  be  useful  ?  Plain 
sewing  yielded  but  slight  recompense  to  fingers  too  little 
accustomed  to  its  mysteries,  and,  in  the  retirement  which  Mrs. 
Fane  had  chosen,  ornamental  needle-work  found  no  market. 
True,  Lilias  knew  something  of  drawing  and  music ;  but  she 
had  never  thought  of  either  as  a  profession,  and  she  felt  con- 
scious that  her  knowledge  of  both  was  too  superficial  to  turn 
to  account.  Little  did  Mrs.  Fane  or  Lilias  know  of  a  district 
school,  particularly  in  the  winter ;  but  they  knew  that  teaching 
was  considered  a  respectable  employment ;  so  the  trial  was 
made,  and  bitter  to  Lilias  was  the  result. 

The  next  morning  the  children  assembled  at  the  school- 
house  as  usual,  but  they  were  soon  dispersed  by  the  sad 
intelligence  that  Miss  Fane  had  been  called  suddenly  home  ; 
which  information  caused  quite  a  sensation  throughout  the 
district.  Alfred  Mason  kicked  over  the  breakfast  table  when 
he  heard  the  news,  declared  that  it  was  Mr.  Fielding's  work, 
and  he  ought  to  be  hanged,  and  chopped  wood  furiously  all 
the  rest  of  the  day. 

Some  people  thought  it  quite  strange  that  Miss  Fane  did 

VOL.  n.  15* 


174  LI  LIAS    FANE. 

not  go  home  in  the  stage-coach,  as  she  came,  and  there  was 
some  little  gossiping  on  the  subject ;  but  Mrs.  Martin  said 
Mr.  Fielding  had  convinced  her  that  his  sleigh,  with  the  buf- 
falo robes,  was  much  more  comfortable,  and  warm,  and  safe, 
and  had  talked  so  much  of  the  inconveniences  of  stage-coach 
travelling,  that  the  good  dame  declared  she  should  "  be  afearcd 
of  the  ugly  things  all  the  days  of  her  life." 

In  the  mean  time,  the  lady  and  gentleman  were  pursuing 
their  way  very  sociably,  if  not  very  happily ;  and  Lilias 
found,  to  her  infinite  astonishment,  that  Mr.  Fielding,  when 
he  threw  off  the  school-committee-man,  and  had  no  unpleasant 
point  to  gain,  (such  as  telling  a  lady  she  is  mistaken  in  her 
vocation,)  could  be  vastly  agreeable.  He  even  went  so  far  as 
to  draw  a  picture  of  her  successor,  the  vinegar-faced  Miss 
Digby,  at  which  Lilias  laughed  so  heartily  that  she  could  not 
help  wondering  the  next  moment  what  had  become  of  her 
sadness.  Looking  for  sadness,  or  any  other  unwelcome  visi- 
tor, (vide  the  old  adage,)  is  the  very  way  to  bring  it  to  your 
presence ;  and  so  Mr.  Fielding  felt  himself  called  upon  to  play 
the  agreeable  to  an  unusual  extent ;  and  Lilias  wondered  how 
she  could  be  so  happy,  until  she  was  obliged  to  explain  the 
cause  of  her  misery,  just  for  the  sake  of  refreshing  her  mem- 
ory. And  then  Mr.  Fielding  was  sad  too — oh,  so  sad  !  And 
then  he  said  something  in  a  very  low  tone  —  doubtless  to  let 
her  know  how  much  he  pitied  her ;  but  it  must  have  been 
awkwardly  done,  for  Lilias  blushed  a  great  deal  more  than 
when  she  was  angry  with  him.  Mr.  Fielding  blushed,  too, 
and  both  looked  as  though  they  were  quite  ready  to  quarrel 
again.  What  a  lucky  circumstance  that  they  did  not  arrive 
at  this  crisis  before,  for  now  Lilias  exclaimed,  joyously,  "  Oh, 
we  are  home!"  and  the  sleigh  drew  up  before  Mrs.  Fane's 
door. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  say  whether  Mrs.  Fane  felt  more 
gladness  or  surprise  at  sight  of  Lilias;  and  the  little  ones 
gathered  around  her,  "  all  clamorous,"  not  "  for  bread,"  but 
kisses. 

Mr.  Fielding  glanced  from  the  noisy,  happy  group  to  the 


LILIAS    FANE.  175 

pale,  thin  face  of  the  mother,  and  then  around  upon  the  scanty 
furniture  ;  and,  callous  old  bachelor  as  he  was,  he  felt  as 
though  his  heart,  swelling  in  his  throat,  and  the  moisture  in 
his  eye,  made  him  ashamed  of  himself. 

Mr.  Fielding  did  not  return  home  that  day,  for  his  horse 
had  lost  a  shoe,  which  it  was  necessary  should  be  replaced ; 
and  the  next  day  there  came  a  snow-storm,  which  only  a 
madman  would  brave ;  then  the  third  day,  I  do  not  quite  know 
what  detained  him,  but  it  must  have  been  something  of 
importance,  as  he  was  the  last  man  in  the  world  to  exchange 
the  comforts  of  home  for  the  inconveniences  of  a  village  hotel, 
without  sufficient  reason.  On  the  fourth  day,  however, 
toward  night,  he  was  so  fortunate  as  to  undertake  his  home- 
ward journey ;  but,  before  this,  he  was  closeted  a  long  time 
with  the  again  radiant  Lilias,  and  afterward,  with  her  mother ; 
and  he  finally  quitted  them,  with  a  face  so  brimming  over 
with  happiness,  as  to  show — perhaps  —  how  glad  he  was  to 
get  away ! 

Early  the  ensuing  spring,  the  cottage  down  by  the  Maple 
Grove  had  a  new  mistress ;  and  another,  close  by,  was  pur- 
chased and  fitted  up  tastefully,  for  a  pale,  sweet  widow  and 
her  bright-eyed  children ;  the  eldest  of  whom,  Alfred  Mason 
declares  a  vast  deal  prettier  than  her  sister  Lilias. 


176 


THE   TWO  FLOWERS. 

A  FLOWER  peeped  out  from  the  folds  of  green 

Which  had  long  about  it  lain ; 
A  dainty  thing  in  purple  sheen, 

Without  a  blight  or  stain. 
A  brighter  bud  ne'er  burst,  I  ween, 

In  bower,  on  hill,  or  plain. 

And  the  breeze  came  out  and  kissed  its  lip, 

And  the  sun  looked  in  its  eye ; 
And  the  golden  bee,  its  sweets  to  sip, 

Kept  all  day  buzzing  by ; 
There  chose  the  grasshopper  to  skip ; 

There  glanced  the  butterfly. 

A  human  soul  from  that  young  flower 

Seemed  glorying  in  the  light ; 
And  when  came  on  the  mellow  hour, 

The  blossom  still  was  bright ; 
And  then  there  crept  around  the  bower 

A  dark  and  solemn  night. 

Gay  dawn  her  portals  open  flung, 

But  the  floweret  looked  not  up ; 
There  on  its  light-poised  stem  it  hung, 

A  tear  within  its  cup ; 
Close  to  its  heart  the  woe-drop  clung ; 

And  the  floweret  looked  not  up. 

The  winning  breezes  whispered  round ; 

Warm  sun-rays  came  a-wooing ; 
And  bright-winged,  bliss-born  things  were  found 

Beside  its  petals  suing ; 
But  the  flower  bent  lower  to  the  ground, 

Those  petals  on  it  strewing. 


THE    TWO   FLOWERS.  177 

And  when  I  saw  the  blossom  dead, 

Upon  the  dewy  sod, 
I  thought  of  one  whose  bright  young  head 

Is  pillowed  by  the  clod ; 
Who  stayed  one  sorrowing  tear  to  shed, 

Then  bore  it  to  her  God. 


178 


RUG   RAFFLES. 

SOVEREIGNS  of  the  olden  time  had  their  jesters ;  and  the 
"  sovereign  people"  on  this  side  the  water  have  revived  the 
fashion,  with  several  other  useful  things  dug  up  from  the 
rubbish  of  the  past.  Every  circle  constituting  a  court,  every 
individual  of  which  is  a  king,  has  its  "  queer  genius ;"  and 
every  little  village  has  its  privileged  quizzer,  its  regularly  in- 
stalled jester.  It  is  this  important  personage  who  goes  about 
at  night  changing  signs ;  leaving  the  barber's  pole  at  the  door 
of  the  merchant  most  renowned  for  shaving ;  putting  "  turn- 
ing" on  the  county  Surrogate's  office,  and  "  fancy  goods"  on 
the  young  ladies'  seminary.  The  same  enterprising  gentle- 
man pastes  a  little  slip  of  white  paper  over  the  M,  when  the 
hand-bills  announce  that  there  is  to  be  a  mass  meeting  ;  sews 
up  the  top  of  his  bed-fellow's  hose ;  rings  door-bells  on  his 
way  home  from  a  pleasant  spree  at  midnight ;  and  imitates 
most  successfully  the  inarticulate  language  of  every  animal, 
from  the  tremulously  vain  crow  of  the  novice  cock,  up  to  the 
roar  of  the  infuriated  bull !  Oh,  what  a  terror  the  humor- 
loving  wight  is  to  adventurous  children  and  housemaids  in 
search  of  recreation ! 

We  are  not  without  our  jester  at  Alderbrook,  of  course ; 
as  well  dispense  with  hot  coffee  and  muffins  at  breakfast. 
Ruggles  Raffles,  the  gentleman  who  officiates  in  the  capacity 
of  mirth-maker  general  to  their  majesties  the  sovereign  people 
of  Alderbrook,  is  a  fat,  jolly  personage,  with  a  peculiarly  fun- 
ny rolling  gait  when  he  walks,  and  a  way,  quite  as  peculiar 
and  quite  as  funny,  of  putting  up  his  feet  or  hands  when  he 
sits.  There  is  a  laugh  nestled  in  every  curve  of  his  big,  ugly 
fingers,  whether  they  exercise  their  muscles  in  expressive 
gestures,  or  lay  themselves  away  to  rest  on  his  knee;  and  the 
knee  itself  crooks  a  little  differently  from  any  other  mortal 


RUG    RAFFLES.  179 

knee,  so  that  you  mechanically  pinch  your  lips  together  when 
you  look  at  it,  to  prevent  an  unseemly  explosion.  Some  say 
Bug-  Eaffles  never  does  any  harm  with  his  mischief;  while 
others  as  decidedly  declare  that  such  doings  never  come  to 
good.  If  our  jester  really  occupies  the  innocent  state  of  be- 
tweenity  ascribed  to  him,  he  is  better  off  than  most  of  us.  I 
do  not  know  whether  the  sin  of  neglecting  to  do  good  finds  a 
fair  offset  in  the  virtue  of  neglecting  to  do  evil ;  but  I  fancy 
that  it  is  rather  difficult  to  find  a  nearer  balancing  of  accounts. 
Well  is  it  for  us  all  that  the  balancing  is  not  in  the  hands  of 
blundering  mortals,  who,  with  the  wise  solemnity  of  apes,  look 
us  in  the  face,  and  call  evil  good  and  good  evil.  I  think  that 
Rug  Raffles,  after  all,  is  not  a  man  to  be  despised,  though  his 
calling  be  not  of  the  highest  order. 

If  our  jester  would  but  confine  his  pranks  to  undignified 
people  and  to  six  days,  he  would  be  rather  more  popular  with 
the  respectables ;  but  propriety  (or  rather  tact)  is  one  of  the 
things  for  which  Rug  Raffles  lacks  the  genius.  So  he  some- 
times exposes  himself  to  the  severity  of  Deacon  Palmer's  men- 
tal love-pats,  which  he  receives  with  all  due  humility.  I  have 
in  my  memory  now  an  occasion  of  this  kind.  There  was  a 
time  when  some  of  us  wearied  of  our  good  old  parson  Brown, 
and  desired  something  more  modern  than  his  pious,  homely 
simplicity.  Parson  Brown  exercised  the  law  of  love  to  a  great 
extent ;  and  this  was  made  to  appear  a  crime  by  some  uneasy 
spirits,  who  thought  the  go-ahead  system  might  be  made  to 
operate  in  the  church  at  Alderbrook  as  in  the  church  and 
world  elsewhere.  So  our  wisely  gentle  pastor  was  pushed 
out  of  the  place  that  he  had  occupied  since  Alderbrook  was  a 
forest,  to  make  room  for  a  successor.  A  more  suitable  man, 
was  the  first  cry ;  but,  anything  for  a  change,  soon  became 
the  rule  of  action,  though  it  was  not  exactly  bodied  in  words ; 
so  in  reality  the  new  pastor  owed  his  entire  popularity  to 
being,  as  Deacon  Palmer  ventured  to  whisper,  "  a  new  broom." 
A  tall,  stiff,  formal  man,  with  a  loud,  monotonous  voice,  and  a 
manner  of  mingled  pomposity  and  severity,  came  among  us, 
to  edify  our  elders  with  abstruse  theories,  and  throw  a  shadow 


1SU  RUG    RAFFLES. 

on  the  hearts  of  us  little  children,  who  had  been  fed  by  lessons 
of  love  from  his  predecessor.  I  do  not  know  how  the  congre- 
gation at  large  looked  upon  the  new  pastor ;  but  the  children 
and  the  Rug  Raffleses  clung  with  all  their  hearts  to  the  old 
regime,  and  hated  most  cordially  "  sour  parson  Lawsley." 
Besides  the  Browns  were  almost  broken-hearted  at  the  indig- 
nity done  them;  to  say  nothing  of  the  respectable  living  which 
they  had  lost,  thus  throwing  them  unexpectedly  upon  the 
slender  resources  of  uninitiated  money-makers.  And  who 
should  pity  them,  pray,  if  we  did  not  ?  And  how  should  \vc 
ever  expect  pardon  for  our  ingratitude,  if  we  could  find  it  in 
our  hearts  to  take  kindly  to  one  we  believed  their  enemy  ? 
We  could  not,  and  we  would  not ;  and  so  there  was  nothing 
left  us  but  to  wage  an  uncompromising  war  with  parson 
Lawsley.  To  be  sure  it  was  little  that  we  children  could  do 
but  get  tired  and  rustle  our  dresses  and  rattle  our  feet  about  in 
church ;  but  Rug  Raffles  was  a  man  of  means.  Many  were 
the  lettered  strips  of  board  which  came  to  label  the  parsonage 
in  the  night  time,  now  proclaiming  there  was  "  pig  iron" 
within,  and  now  "  white-washing  done"  by  the  master  of  the 
mansion ;  but  still  the  Rev.  Mr.  Lawsley  walked  with  the 
same  air  of  consequence  up  and  down  the  village  side-walk, 
till  Rug  Raffles  wished  himself  a  fly,  and  thought  very  highly 
of  nose-tickling.  Sometimes  he  managed  to  pin  strips  of  pa- 
per to  the  Rev.  gentleman's  coat,  with  rather  gay  scraps  of 
songs  upon  them ;  but  these  were  soon  removed,  and,  strange 
to  say,  without  an  abatement  of  dignity. 

Our  church  is  an  old-fashioned  one,  with  a  good  fat  weath- 
ercock (that  wheezes  when  the  wind  blows,  as  though  it  had 
the  asthma)  upon  the  belfry,  and  big,  plain  glass  windows, 
guiltless  of  shutters,  commanding  a  view  of  the  whole  village 
and  the  farm-houses  upon  its  skirts.  There  is  a  large  gallery 
extending  all  around  the  inside,  the  front  of  which  is  occupied 
by  a  very  fine-toned  organ  (purchased  in  honor  of  the  new 
pastor)  and  a  half  score  of  vocalists,  and  the  back,  just  behind 
the  pulpit,  by  the  "  boys  and  loafers."  Among  this  motley 
company  Rug  Raffles  reigns  king.  Not  that  he  exactly  classes 


BUG    RAFFLES.  181 

himself  with  either;  but  other  people  do  it  for  him.  The 
respectables  call  him  a  loafer,  and  the  boys  are  very  sure  he 
belongs  to  them.  One  morning',  parson  Lawsley  walked  into 
the  pulpit  as  usual,  read  a  portion  of  Scripture  and  then  a 
hymn,  and  sat  down  to  examine  his  notes.  Immediately 
above  him,  peering  over  the  gallery  with  a  most  waggish 
expression  of  countenance,  leaned  Rug  Raffles,  his  fat  arms 
folded  beneath  his  chin,  and  his  round  head  wagging  from 
side  to  side,  as  though  there  had  been  a  thought  in  it  disin- 
clined to  quiet.  There  was  a  striking  contrast  between  the 
long  chin,  hollow  temples,  cadaverous  cheeks,  and  severely 
serious  face  below,  and  the  puff-cheeked,  peaked-eyed,  mirth- 
slipped  visage  peering  down  upon  him  with  a  ludicrous  ex- 
pression of  mock  gravity  which  sent  a  smile  to  many  a  lip. 
Soon  the  hymn  was  ended,  and  the  preacher  rose  and  leaned 
upon  his  cushioned  desk  to  pray.  The  heads  of  the  more 
reverent  part  of  the  congregation  were  bowed,  while  Rug 
Raffles  entertained  the  rest.  He  pulled  a  line  from  his  pock- 
et, disentangled  a  fish-hook  from  his  vest,  and,  attaching  it  to 
the  line,  began  to  lower  it  towards  the  sofa  in  the  pulpit. 
People  stared  and  smiled,  for  it  was  scarce  to  be  expected  that 
Rug  Raffles  would  make  a  good  "  fisher  of  men."  But  this 
was  not  his  object.  After  he  had  angled  for  some  time  on 
the  sofa,  his  eye  suddenly  brightened,  the  corners  of  his  mouth 
retreated  toward  his  ears,  and  with  a  nod  and  wave  of  triumph, 
which  very  nearly  convulsed  the  waiting  congregation  with 
laughter,  he  suddenly  brought  his  prize  to  light.  He  had 
managed  to  catch  his  hook  upon  a  thread,  and  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Lawsley's  sermon  was  fast  approaching  the  gallery.  An 
involuntary  titter  caused  Deacon  Palmer  and  several  others  to 
raise  their  heads;  but  Rug  Raffles  was  carefully  conning  his 
notes,  and  the  cause  of  the  untimely  mirth  was  undiscovera- 
ble.  The  prayer  ended,  another  hymn  was  sung,  and  the 
preacher  began  to  look  about  him  for  his  sermon.  He  thrust 
his  hands  first  into  one  pocket  and  then  in  the  other,  exam- 
ined the  contents  of  his  hat,  turned  over  the  leaves  of  the 
Bible  with  irreverent  haste,  again  rummaged  his  pockets, 
vol..  n.  16 


l&i  RUG    RAFFLES. 

looked  upon  the  floor,  and  then  paused  to  wipe  the  heavy 
perspiration  from  his  brow,  little  dreaming  that  his  lost  manu- 
script was  far  above  his  head.  But  if  he  had  turned  an  eye 
upward,  he  would  have  seen  nothing  but  Rug  Raffles  gazing 
down  inquiringly  upon  him,  as  though  wondering  if  the  im- 
perturbable parson  Lawsley  had  really  gone  mad.  As  for  the 
congregation,  some  were  enjoying  the  joke  without  compunc- 
tion, while  others,  according  to  their  different  dispositions,  had 
their  sympathies  enlisted  in  behalf  of  the  distressed  clergy- 
man. But  both  classes  found  it  difficult  to  restrain  their 
laughter.  At  last  the  preacher,  in  evident  despair,  opened  his 
Bible,  turned  over  the  leaves  handful  after  handful,  and, 
finally,  in  a  strange  state  of  nervous  excitement,  paused  as 
though  to  calm  his  thoughts.  Rug  Raffles  spread  the  sermon 
before  him,  donned  a  pair  of  horn-mounted  spectacles  with  the 
glasses  out,  and  began  to  look  important.  Parson  Lawsley 
announced  his  text,  and  Rug  Raffles  nodded  approbativcly. 
The  preacher  commenced  his  exordium,  and  Rug  nodded 
again,  with  a  patronizing  air,  which  said  as  plainly  as  words, 
"  Good  boy  !  good  boy  !  he  has  his  lesson  nicely."  In  a  mo- 
ment, however,  the  preacher  began  to  extemporize,  and  Rug 
frowned  and  shook  his  head  violently.  It  was  too  much  for 
the  gravity  of  the  initiated  part  of  the  audience,  and  there  was 
a  half-smothered  burst  of  laughter,  which  startled  even  them- 
selves, and  put  parson  Lawsley  to  the  torture.  He  was  not 
accustomed  to  speaking  extemporaneously  >  and  he  fancied  he 
had  excited  the  laugh  by  his  awkwardness.  The  preacher 
went  on,  hesitatingly  and  tremblingly;  Rug  Raffles  frowned 
and  shook  his  head,  now  and  then  giving  a  quick  nod  of  nppro- 
bation;  and  the  audience  was  a  most  irreverently  smiling  one. 
At  last  the  strange  sermon  ended,  and  the  preacher  leaned 
over  his  desk  to  pray.  Immediately  Rug  Raffles  commenced 
operations  again.  He  drew  a  piece  of  twine  from  his  pocket, 
and  tying  it  loosely  around  the  pilfered  sermon,  began  lower- 
ing it  toward  the  sofa.  Down,  down,  slowly  and  carefully  it 
came ;  then  there  was  a  sudden  jerk,  and  the  disengaged  line 
was  gathered  up  and  stowrd  away  in  the  pocket  of  the  jester. 


RUG    RAFFLES.  183 

The  clergyman  ended  his  prayer,  and  turned  to  the  sofa. 
There  lay  his  lost  sermon,  in  the  very  spot  where  he  had 
placed  it.  He  started  backward  with  astonishment,  and,  un- 
fortunately being  nearer  the  side  of  the  pulpit  than  he  had 
imagined,  lost  his  balance  on  the  top  stair,  and  turned  a  som- 
erset to  the  bottom.  That  parson  Lawsley  had  surely  gone 
mad  was  the  general  impression,  and  the  congregation  scat- 
tered, leaving  Rug  Raffles  in  the  vestibule,  chuckling  over  the 
success  of  his  feat.  After  this  everybody  took  occasion  to  tack 
a  smile  to  the  name  of  parson  Lawsley  whenever  it  was  men- 
tioned, and  in  six  months'  time  our  dear  old  pastor  was  rein- 
stalled in  his  office  and  we  have  never  wearied  of  him  since. 
When  Deacon  Palmer  first  heard  the  truth  of  the  Lawsley 
story,  he  gave  Rug  Raffles  a  serious  reprimand  and — pre- 
sented him  with  a  new  coat !  This  was  an  era  in  Rug's  life. 
His  seedy,  thread-bare  habiliments  had  tried  severely  the 
affection  between  warp  and  woof;  and  though  he  was  never 
weary  of  caressing  the  friends  that  had  stood  by  him  through 
weal  and  woe,  he  was  in  truth  far  from  heart-broken  at  the 
thought  of  a  separation  from  them. 

But  the  deacon  had  not  thought  of  one  thing — that  the 
new  coat  would  need  shapeliness — and  Rug  was  quite  above 
carrying  about  with  him  such  tradesman-like  things  as  dol- 
lars and  cents.  Besides,  there  was  not  a  tailor  in  Alderbrook 
who  would  trust  him.  Nothing  daunted,  however,  our  hero 
shouldered  his  cloth  and  marched  to  every  door.  It  was  of 
no  use ;  every  shop  was  overstocked  with  work,  and  poor 
Rug  was  in  a  quandary.  But  at  last  a  bright  thought  came. 
He  would  n't  have  his  coat  made  by  a  clumsy  awkward  man, 
not  he.  Women's  delicate  fingers  were  far  nimbler,  and  there 
was  not  a  prettier  woman  within  fifty  miles  of  Alderbrook 
than  the  pale,  sweet  creature,  who  occupied  the  tiny  cottage 
at  the  foot  of  the  hill  near  the  toll-gate. 

Beautiful,  indeed,  was  young  Nelly  Tinsley :  more  beauti- 
ful now  than  when,  decked  'in  the  gayest  finery  the  shops  of 
Alderbrook  afforded,  she  moved  among  us  without  a  shadow 
on  her  brow.  Now  sad  thoughts  had  drawn  lines  upon  her 


184  RUG    RAFFLES. 

face  painfully  intelligible;  the  blur  \<  in-  crossed  her  temples 
with  unusual  distinctness  ;  her  eyes  were  dimmed  with  night- 
watching,  and  her  small  hand  had  grown  thin  and  half-trans- 
parent. How  had  the  blithe,  ruddy  daughter  of  farmer  Bly 
changed ;  Nelly  Bly  had  been  a  bright,  fun-loving  girl,  \\ho 
was  petted  and  indulged  until  she  grew  wilful  and  spurned 
every  rein  but  that  of  love.  She  yielded  to  her  father  because 
she  loved  him ;  but  when  a  stronger  love  came  to  her  heart 
she  forgot  her  obedience  to  the  first.  Young  Arthur  Tinsley 
smoothed  hack  her  hair,  and  told  her  how  dear  was  every 
golden  thread  to  him ;  pressed  her  pretty  hand  between  his 
own ;  looked  into  her  eyes  until  they  grew  dreamy  as  his ; 
kissed  the  smile  from  her  bright  lip ;  and  finally  unlocked  a 
fountain  of  delicious  tears  which  had  till  now  slumbered  deep 
down  in  her  nature.  Who  would  not  grow  familiar  with  tears 
must  never  love ;  who  would  not  love  must  barter  all  the 
wealth  of  the  measureless  depths  of  the  human  heart  for  the 
bubble  which  dances  on  its  surface.  The  bubble  went  from 
Nelly's  heart,  the  glitter  from  her  lip ;  and  up,  gushing  from 
the  rich  depths  below,  came  a  fountain  never  more  to  be  sealed, 
not  even  in  etemity.  Love  made  the  spirit  of  Nelly  Bly 
meek,  but  it  made  it  strong  too.  So  when  the  stubborn  old 
farmer  told  her  that  if  she  became  the  wife  of  the  beggarly 
artist,  Tinsley,  his  door  should  be  forever  closed  against  her, 
she  turned,  and,  with  a  touching,  beautiful  faith,  added  her 
hand  to  her  heart's  gift.  What  a  holy  thing  is  that  love 
which,  closing  the  eyes  upon  a  brilliant  future,  turns  to  low- 
liness and  clouds,  and  whispers  to  the  beloved  one  "  only  thee 
and  heaven  ! "  I  know  there  are  men  of  cold  theories  who 
would  prove  to  me  that  Nelly  Bly  acted  far  from  right,  and  I 
should  be  speechless  before  them ;  but  when  they  are  away 
with  their  arguments  I  cannot  remember  what  they  have  said ; 
and  so  I  find  myself  pronouncing  the  love  of  our  meek-eyed, 
white-browed  neighbor,  a  beautiful  and  a  holy  thing. 

Farmer  Bly  had  no  other  child,  and  so,  after  Nelly's  mar- 
riage, the  great  farm-house  became  a  desolate  place,  and  he 
so  surly  and  ill-natured  that  children  ran  and  hid  themselves 


RUG    RAFFLES.  185 

at  the  sound  of  his  voice.  At  first  Nelly  Tinsley  was  very 
proud  of  her  husband,  for  she  knew  well  how  to  appreciate 
his  genius ;  and  she  was  delighted  to  find  that  she  could  aid 
in  its  development  by  soothing  and  encouragement.  But  soon 
pride  began  to  lose  itself  in  anxiety.  Trials  were  in  the  way, 
and  he  grew  irritable ;  trials  increased,  and  he  bent  beneath 
them ;  still  others  came,  and  health  and  spirits  yielded.  A 
strong  man  could  scarce  have  wrestled  with  such  a  fortune ; 
but  Arthur  Tinsley  had  the  helpless  simplicity  of  a  child  and 
the  sensitiveness  of  a  woman.  For  a  while  poor  Nelly  strug- 
gled on  cheerfully  and  uncomplainingly ;  and  then,  as  un- 
complainingly, but  with  a  heart-ache  written  in  every  line  of 
her  face,  she  came  with  her  sick  husband  and  dying  child 
back  to  Alderbrook.  Oh,  how  changed  was  that  bright  young 
face  with  the  merry  heart-glow  lighting  up  either  cheek  ! 
Could  that  pale,  fragile  creature  be  Nelly  Ely  ?  The  rugged 
old  farmer  turned  from  her  despairing  cry,  and  shut  the  door 
against  her  with  an  oath ;  and  for  an  hour  did  poor  Nelly  lie, 
like  one  dead,  at  the  roots  of  the  white  rose-bushes  among 
which  she  had  spent  her  bird-like  hours  before  she  knew  sor- 
row. At  last  she  arose  and  reeled  back  to  the  village  ;  not 
quite  broken-hearted,  for  her  husband  was  yet  left  to  her ;  and 
though  he  was  now  but  the  wreck  of  the  impassioned,  enthu- 
siastic, heartful  Arthur  Tinsley,  that  shattered  wreck  was  far 
dearer  to  her  than  the  noble,  scatheless  structure.  Her  heart 
had  grown  to  him  in  their  humiliation.  Was  she  not  his 
world  as  he  was  hers  ?  Immeasurably  blest  was  young  Nelly 
Tinsley  even  in  her  misery;  and  as  she  knelt  by  the  sick 
couch  of  her  husband  that  night,  and  soothed  his  aching  head, 
and  listened  to  his  low  tones,  sometimes  querulous,  sometimes 
melting  with  tenderness,  there  was  not  one  act  of  her  life 
toward  him  she  would  have  recalled.  Some  people  made 
mention  of  the  fact  that  there  had  been  no  parental  blessing 
on  the  union,  and  shook  their  heads,  remarking  that  "  such 
things  were  always  punished  sooner  or  later ;"  but  Nelly 
would  have  stared  at  them  in  bewilderment.  Surely  there 
was  nothing  like  punishment  in  her  lot.  She  had  certainly 

VOL.  II.  16* 


186  HOG    UAPFLB8. 

suffered  very  deeply,  but  it  was  with  him  ;  and  could  all  her 
father's  lands  buy  a  single  hour  of  that  time  made  invaluable 
by  love  ?  Why,  there  was  a  blessedness  in  her  very  suffer- 
ings, consecrated  as  they  were  to  a  holy  affection ;  and  while 
she  was  wearing  out  life  in  poverty  and  lowliness,  she  would 
not  have  exchanged  for  a  diadem  her  sacred  wealth  of  heart. 
Where  the  shadows  rest  the  violets  spring  freshest  and  sweet- 
est. If  the  sunlight  must  needs  kiss  the  perfume  from  my 
violets,  Heaven  keep  me  ever  in  the  shadow.  We  are  way- 
ward  children,  and  do  not  always  know  what  is  good  for  us ; 
but  we  have  a  Father  above,  who,  when  he  takes  from  us  the 
dross  and  tinsel,  blesses  us  with  such  things  as  the  angels 
have.  When  our  first  mother  went  out  of  Eden  in  sorrow, 
she  carried  an  Eden  in  her  heart ;  there  are  some  who  live  in 
an  Eden  now,  but  their  hearts  are  barren. 

Nelly  Tinsley  found  a  home  with  an  old  woman,  to  whom 
she  had  been  kind  in  better  days  ;  and  the  villagers  buried  her 
child  ;  and  then  she  was  comparatively  forgotten.  Her  hus- 
band sometimes  rose  from  his  couch  long  enough  to  toy  a  little 
with  his  pencil,  but  the  most  trifling  efforts  were  usually  repaid 
by  long,  dreary  days  of  illness  ;  then  he  would  become  peevish, 
talk  of  starving  and  of  doctor's  bills,  beg  them  to  let  him  die, 
for  he  was  all  that  kept  Nelly  from  wealth  and  happiness,  and 
bitterly  bewail  his  folly  in  ever  having  deprived  her  of  a 
home.  Nelly  answered  cheeringly  every  murmur  but  the 
last;  but  that  scarce  sincere  regret  was  always  dis-iputed  by 
her  tears.  Then  came  the  words  of  tenderness,  which  turned 
Nelly's  sad  heart  into  a  habitation  of  subdued,  sorrow-shaded 
bliss.  The  old  woman  with  whom  Nelly  had  found  a  home, 
supported  herself  by  her  needle,  and  so  the  young  wife  was 
soon  initiated  into  the  more  substantial  mysteries. 

Rug  Raffles  had  no  hope  of  inducing  dame  Gaskill  to  make 
his  coat,  for  he  was  quite  aware  that  his  credit  was  not  very 
high  with  her  ;  but  Nelly  Tinsley  probably  had  many  dreary, 
unoccupied  hours ;  and  he  argued,  as  he  wended  his  way  to 
her  humble  door,  that  he  should  be  doing  her  a  great  favor 
by  furnishing  her  with  employment. 


RUG    RAFFLES.  187 

"Nothing  like  industry  to  keep  trouble  away — so  I've 
heard  say;"  soliloquized  Rug  Raffles,  as  he  trundled  his  bur- 
ly corpus  over  the  little  strip  of  tan-bark  at  the  road  side. 
"  Industry  !  ha  !  ha  !  That 's  why  I  don't  have  trouble,  I  sup- 
pose. Ha !  ha  !  A  little  job  for  the  squire  to-night,  just  to 
keep  him  from  sublimating  on  the  top  of  his  big  stilts — um! 
only  a  trifle ;"  and  Rug  Raffles  winked  and  nodded,  and 
looked  about  him  as  though  he  had  been  making  confidants 
of  the  fence  and  bushes.  "Well,  I  am  a.  philanthropist; 
there  's  no  disputing  that.  Parson  Brown  is  a  pretty  good — 
a  pretty  good  man — but  he  wouldn't  crawl  out  of  his  bed  of 
a  dark  night  to  benefit  the  public  in  the  way  I  do,  I  reckon. 
Yes,  ihe  public — that's  the  word — I'm  a  PUBLIC  BENEFAC- 
TOR, ha !  ha  !  They  say  a  laugh  is  the  best  medicine.  I  make 
everybody  laugh,  and  so  I  'm  the  biggest  doctor  in  Alder- 
brook.  So,  so — this  is  the  house.  Not  quite  a  palace,  for 
sure.  Wonder  if  Miss  Nelly  Ely  don't  want  to  get  back  into 
the  old  farm-house — seems  to  me  that  was  rather  more  com- 
fortable." 

When  Rug  Raffles  made  known  his  errand,  he  found,  as  he 
had  anticipated,  dame  Gaskill  quite  overstocked  with  work. 

"  Can't  make  it,  dame  ? " 

"  No ;  my  customers — " 

"  Rayther  queer  ! "  and  Rug  regarded  the  empty  table  and 
work-shelf,  with  an  expression  peculiarly  quizzical. 

"  But  my  customers  —  " 

"  Supposing  I  should  wait  a  week  or  two?" 

"  Oh,  it  would  make  no  difference ;  I  have  pile  on  pile  of 
work;  and  my  customers  —  " 

•'  Well,  now,  Dame  Gaskill,  could  you  find  time  to  make 
it  next  year  ?  "  interrupted  Rug,  fixing  his  peaked  eyes  on 
her  with  a  kind  of  mesmeric  stare,  and  puffing  out  his  full 
cheeks ;"  I  like  your  work  amazingly,  dame,  and  I  am  willing 
to  be  accommodating,  I  am." 

"  I  think  I  can  make  it."  The  words  came  in  soft,  tremu- 
lous tones,  from  the  farther  end  of  the  long  narrow  room, 
which  Rug  immediately  whispered  himself  was  occupied  By 


188 


RUG    RAFFLES. 


sweet  Nelly  Ely.  The  speaker  was  leaning  over  a  couch, 
with  one  ihin  hand  resting  caressingly  on  a  brow  even 
thinner  and  paler  than  itself;  and,  as  she  turned  her  face  to 
speak,  Rug,  careless  as  he  was,  discerned  the  traces  of  ic-.irs 
on  her  now  flushed  cheek,  and  knew  by  her  eager  tones  that 
his  favor  was  duly  esteemed. 

"  You ! "  exclaimed  dame  Gaskill.  "  Why,  you  never 
made  a  coat  in  your  life  !  Think  of  stitching  the  collar,  and 
working  the  button-holes,  and  pressing  it  off,  and  all  that. 
No,  no  !  You  can't  make  it." 

"  If —  if  you  would  show  me,"  began  Nelly,  hesitatingly, 
"  if  you  would  show  me,  perhaps — " 

"  But  I  can't  show  you — I  shall  have  no  time  for  showing 
you." 

"  I  should  like  to  do  it,  indeed ! "  burst  from  the  lips  of  the 
poor  wife,  as  she  clasped  her  pale  hands  helplessly  over  her 
face,  and  the  tears  gushed  like  a  shower  of  precious  gems  — 
less  precious  they  than  those  pure  heart-jewels!  —  from  be- 
tween her  attenuated  fingers. 

"  And  you  shall  do  it ! "  exclaimed  Rug,  setting  down  his 
foot  emphatically. 

A  look  of  gratitude  and  a  sob  was  the  answer. 

"  Stitching  the  collar, — "  began  the  unrelenting  dame. 

"  The  collar  need  n't  be  stitched.  There  is  no  use  in 
spoiling  the  young  woman's  eyes  stitching  collars.  Who 
ever  looks  at  my  collar,  I  should  like  to  know  ? " 

"  And  the  button-holes, — "  continued  the  pertinacious 
dame. 

"  Don't  want  button-holes — won't  have  button-holes — 
button-holes  always  break  out  and  make  a  great  bother. 
Button-holes  are  among  the  ornamentals,  and  I  'm  principled 
against  ornamentals." 

"  Lud-a-mercy,  Mr.  Raffles  ! " 

"  It 's  no  use,  dame.  Right  about  face  !  hands  and  eyes 
down  !  The  young  woman  shall  do  it." 

"But,  Mr.  Raffles—" 

'  I  tell  ye  she  shall  do  it ! " 


RUG    RAFFLES.  189 

"  It  will  never  do  to  give  it  up  so,"  thought  Dame  Gaskill ; 
though,  to  tell  the  truth,  she  had  been  watching  in  great  anx- 
iety all  the  morning  for  a  customer ;  and  so  she  rose  and 
joined  Nelly  at  the  other  end  of  the  room.  Rug  did  not  hear 
the  first  remarks  ;  but,  after  a  few  moments,  enlreatingly  and 
deprecatingly  came  the  words,  "  Oh,  it  is  necessary — it  is; 
and  he  could  n't  have  the  heart  to  keep  back  the  money  from 
me." 

"  Certainly  not  if  he  had  it ;  but  Rug  Raffles  has  n't 
known  the  color  of  a  coin  this  many  a  day,  I  '11  warrant  me.'' 

"  It  is  a  solemn  fact,  dame,"  whispered  Rug  to  himself,  at 
the  same  time  fumbling  in  his  empty  pockets. 

"  He  will  get  the  money,  I  am  sure  he  will ;  he  looks 
good-natured,  and  I  will  trust  him  ;  I  am  certain  he  will 
get  it." 

"  If  he  only  could,  mistress  pretty-lips,"  was  the  aside  of 
Rug,  "  but  where  in  the  name  of  old  shoes  and  ragged  elbows, 
is  it  to  come  from  ?  That's  what  I  should  just  like  to  know." 

"  You  will  lose  it,"  pursued  the  dame. 

"  Heaven  forbid !  and  he  so  ill,  and  so  worried  when  I 
take  the  needle." 

"  It  is  a  great  pity  you  should  worry  him." 

"  Oh,  I  will  not.  I  will  do  it  while  he  sleeps.  He  al- 
ways has  a  long  sleep  after  midnight." 

"  And  kill  yourself?" 

"  Oh  no,  I  am  so  well  and  strong ! " 

The  dame  sighed ;  and  Rug  drew  the  cuff  of  his  coat 
across  his  eyes — probably  to  shade  them  from  the  sunlight. 

"  But  you  do  not  need  this  money  just  now ;  you  paid  the 
doctor's  bill  yesterday,  and  there  is  plenty  of  arrow-root  left 
for  these  two  or  three  days  yet ;  of  course  there  is  no  danger 
that  you  and  I  will  starve.  Just  wait  patiently  and  some  job 
will  come  worth  having  before  you  need  the  money." 

Nelly  looked  around  to  assure  herself  that  the  invalid 
slept,  and  then  answered  softly,  "  He  asked  me  for  paints  this 
morning,  and  it  was  a  hard  thing  to  deny  him.  I  never  have 
done  that  before.  Medicine  may  drive  the  pain  away,  but  he 


IW  RUO    RAFFLES. 

will  go  wild  if  poverty  keep  him  from  the  exercise  of  his  art. 
The  paints  are  worth  more  to  him  than  medicines." 

"  Why,  he  couldn't  use  them,  if — " 

"  No  matter  for  that,  he  must  have  them,  if  I  go  out  into 
the  streets  and  beg." 

"  Nonsense,  child  !  I  have  no  patience  with  you.  You 
will  kill  yourself  to  indulge  his  whims.  You  got  this  terri- 
ble cough  sitting  up  in  the  cold  room  to  earn  the  money  for 
that  canvass  ;  and  then  the  ungrateful  fellow  pushed  his  foot 
through  it  just  because  some  of  his  figurations  didn't  suit 
him.  There,  don't  cry,  child — don't  cry  !  I  didn't  mean  to 
hurt  your  feelings.  Sick  folks  must  be  indulged,  I  suppose, 
and  Mr.  Tinsely  is  n't  always  so ;  but  I  must  say  you  are  a 
nice  creature  to  take  his  high-handed  doings  so  sweetly, 
when  he  is  put  out.  And  I  must  say  it  is  rather  hard  for 
you  to  kill  yourself  "for  a  whimsey." 

Rug  Raffles  had  found  his  chair  rather  uncomfortable  dur- 
ing the  conference  of  the  two  women,  and  particularly  since 
in  their  earnestness  they  had  allowed  their  voices  to  rise  to  a 
hearing  pitch.  He  put  the  right  leg  over  the  left  knee,  then 
the  left  leg  over  the  right  knee,  trotted  his  foot,  drummed 
with-  his  hands  on  the  crown  of  his  hat,  hitched,  fidgetted, 
whistled,  and  finally,  in  the  midst  of  a  pathetic  remonstrance 
from  Nelly,  sprang  to  his  feet  outright. 

"  I  '11  tell  you  what,  young  woman — ahem  !  young  woman 
—  mistress  pretty-speech  —  I  tell  you,  I  don't  want  that  coat. 
I  hate  new  coats ;  they  always  pinch  and  set  a  fellow  up, 
like  a  pound  of  starch,  and  —  I  should  feel  like  a  gentleman 
in  a  new  coat,  and  I  object  to  being  a  gentleman  ;  I  could  n't 
condescend." 

By  the  time  Rug  had  delivered  himself  of  his  speech  he 
was  at  the  'door. 

"  But  the  cloth,  Mr.  Raffles  !  Don't  go  away  without  the 
cloth,"  exclaimed  dame  Gaskill,  following  her  queer  customer 
with  the  package. 

"  Don't  bother  me  with  the  cloth,  dame.  D'ye  think  I  'm 
an  errand  boy  to  be  running  about  the  streets  with  bundles  ? 
Out  of  my  way,  and  take  the  cloth  back  into  the  house  !  But 


RUG    RAFFLES.  191 

look'ee,  old  woman,  some  folks  say  I  'm  the  devil,  so  look 
out  how  you  put  your  fingers  inside  that  bundle.  It 's — 
it 's,"  and  by  this  time  Rug  Raffles  was  clambering  up  the 
hill,  very  nearly  breathless,  "  it 's  for  Nelly  Ely  to  buy  paints 
with." 

"  A  new  coat !  "  soliloquized  Rug,  as  he  seated  himself  on 
the  front  steps  of  the  nearest  grocery :  "  a  new  coat  must  be 
a  terrible  bore.  I  should  n't  sit  down  so  easy-like  in  it  as  I 
do  in  you,  old  friend;"  and  he  hugged  his  seedy  satinet  as  in 
all  probability  he  would  have  hugged  a  sweet-heart.  "How 
strangely  my  elbows  would  feel  in  a  new  coat,  poor  things ! 
as  fixed -up  as  I  used  to  feel  when  grandmamma  took  me 
a-visiting;  and  my  shoulders,  too — they  are  free-born  citizens, 
and  never  could  submit  to  being  put  in  the  stocks,  not  they. 
But  what  a  villain  old  Ely  must  be  !  The  girl  would  actu- 
ally have  got  the  blind  side  of  me,  if  I  would  have  let  her 
— but  then  it  is  n't  in  the  nature  of  us  laughing  philosophers 
to  mind  much  about  the  weepers.  Poor  thing  !  how  pitifully 
she  talks  of  that  rascally  husband  of  hers ;  and  he  leads  her  a 
dog's  life,  I  've  no  doubt.  It 's  a  fancy  some  husbands  have 
to  beat  and  bruise  about,  as  though  there  was  nobody  in  the 
big  world  but  themselves ;  and  I  'm  glad  I  've  kept  clear  of 
'em.  I  'm  glad,  I  mean,  that  I  don't  happen  to  have  a  wife 
to  tyrannize  over ;  for  I  should  be  a  shocking  bad  fellow  in 
that  case,  I  know  I  should.  Would  n't  I  flourish  my  shil- 
lelah,  though  ?  Hurrah  ! " 

After  making  a  grand  flourish,  and  explaining  to  the  in- 
quisitive bystanders  that  he  was  only  cudgelling  Mrs.  Rug- 
gles  Raffles  that  was  to  be,  our  hero  again  seated  himself  on 
the  steps  and  immediately  fell  into  a  state  of  profound  medi- 
tation. Rug  was  apt  to  be  contemplative  when  he  was  not 
uproariously  social;  and,  as  the  result  of  his  ponderings  was 
sure  to  follow  close  on  the  heels  of  their  indulgence,  no  one 
ever  offered  even  a  penny  for  his  thoughts.  When  the  half 
hour  was  passed,  Rug  arose  and  shook  himself  like  Samson. 
Probably  he  was  satisfied  that  his  strength  was  with  him ;  for 
immediately  his  face  put  on  all  its  waggery  ;  his  half-shut 


192  BUG   RAFFLES. 

pointed  eyes  looked  as  though  made  to  pilfer  sermons ;  his 
mouth,  which  grew  astonishingly  wide,  held  a  merry  thought 
in  each  corner  ;  even  his  large  nose  had  an  expression  about 
it  which  added  not  a  little  to  the  comic  drollery  of  his  phiz ; 
and  he  alternately  rubbed  his  hands  and  hugged  himself  with 
infinite  satisfaction.  As  soon  as  his  first  self-congratulations 
were  over,  he  began  trundling  himself  along  the  street,  his 
heavy  locomotives  seeming  to  find  the  utmost  difficulty  in 
keeping  pace  with  him. 

Farmer  Ely  had  been  more  gruff  since  the  return  of  his 
daughter  than  ever.  He  was  obliged  to  employ  men-ser- 
vants, (or  rather  gentleman  helps,)  within  doors,  for  no 
woman  would  stay  in  his  kitchen ;  and  both  house  and  field 
were  often  witnesses  of  desperate  quarrels  between  employer 
and  the  employed.  On  this  day  he  was  going  his  usual 
rounds  among  his  workmen,  when,  as  he  chanced  to  draw 
near  a  forest,  his  attention  was  arrested  by  hearing  his  own 
name. 

"  I  say,  uncle,  I  should  like  to  own  this  farm  of  old  Ely's." 

"  Yes,  it  is  a  fine  farm  ;  but  little  good  does  it  bring  to  the 
owner.  He  is  the  most  miserable  old  wasp  in  existence  ;  for, 
fool-like,  he  thought  to  sting  his  daughter,  but  instead  of  that 
he  stung  himself,  and  has  been  smarting  ever  since." 

"  But  he  has  a  grand  farm  for  all  that." 

"  Yes,  a  grand  farm ;  but  what  good  will  it  do  him  ? 
They'll  shovel  his  old  bones  into  the  grave  one  of  these 
days,  and  his  hard  earnings  will  go  to  those  who  will  be  glad 
the  old  pest  is  out  of  the  way." 

"  Probably  his  pauper  daughter  will  come  in  for  a  share 
then." 

The  listener  ground  his  teeth  and  clenched  his  fist.  Per- 
haps he  was  enraged  at  the  thought  of  his  money  going  to 
poor  Nelly.  Perhaps  the  idea  of  his  daughter's  being  a  pau- 
per was  new  to  him. 

"  Not  she,"  returned  the  other  voice  ;  "  she  's  pretty  much 
done  with  money  and  pauperism  both,  I  reckon  ;  and  he  '11 
soon  have  her  ghost  to  worry  him  out  of  the  world,  I  can  toll 


RUG    RAFFLES.  193 

you.  She  won't  come  near  him  now  though  she  's  starving, 
poor  thing !  but  bones  which  have  been  in  the  grave  are  not 
so  nice  about  such  matters.  She  will  haunt  the  old  knave, 
night  and  day,  I  '11  warrant  me." 

"  What  a  pity  the  miserable  old  Jew  has  n't  a  grandchild, 
since  he  's  resolved  to  disinherit  his  daughter." 

"  Ay,  he  might  have  had.  A  finer  boy  never  gladdened 
mother's  heart  than  little  Harry." 

Farmer  Ely  gave  a  sudden  start,  and  his  flee  changed  to  an 
ashen  hue. 

"  It  was  a  strange  thing  enough  for  her  to  name  him  after 
one  who  had  treated  her  so  shamefully ;  but  women  will  have 
queer  notions,  and  he  was  the  very  picture  of  his  rascally 
grandfather.  That  was  enough  to  make  Nelly  hate  him ; 
but  instead  of  that,  she  only  loved  him  the  more.  Wolves 
and  tigers  take  care  of  their  little  ones,  but  old  Ely  left  his  to 
starve.  It  is  well  though  that  the  baby  died ;  for  the  sooner 
such  a  race  becomes  extinct  the  better." 

"  And  do  you  think  Tinsley  is  really  dying?" 

"  No  doubt  of  it.  Three  murders  are  a  pretty  heavy  load 
for  one  man's  conscience." 

Farmer  Ely  unconsciously  uttered  a  groan ;  but  the  con- 
versationists, who  seemed  in  no  wise  disturbed  by  the  sound, 
continued : 

"  I  have  heard  that  he  actually  refused  his  grandson  a 
shroud." 

"  It  is  true ;  and  I  should  n't  wonder  if  that  very  deed  con- 
demned his  own  bones  to  rot  above  ground.  Such  things  do 
happen  sometimes." 

"  Think  of  pretty  Nelly  Ely's  being  a  beggar  in  Alder- 
brook  !  There  was  a  time  when  the  Elys  carried  their  heads 
as  high  as  the  highest ;  but  now  they  are  quite  down  in  the 
mouth.  Only  two  left;  the  one  disgraced  in  everybody's 
eyes  by  his  unnatural  hard-hearted  ness,  and  the  other  a  pau- 
per !  Well,  it  is  one  comfort  to  us  poor  fellows  to  know  that 
we  all  come  out  about  the  same  in  the  end.  Any  way,  I 
would  rather  be  in  my  grave  than  old  Ely's." 

VOL.  II.  17 


194  RUG    RAFFLES. 

"  Old  Antoine's  would  be  a  palace  to  that,  I  fancy." 

"  Does  Mistress  Nelly  ever  speak  of  her  father  ? " 

"  Yes;  when  she  hears  him  called  a  villain,  as  everybody 
does  call  him,  she  takes  on  dreadfully,  and  says  he  was  a  good 
father  to  her  once,  and  she  will  love  him  now  for  what  he  has 
been.  Women  are  always  fools  about  these  matters,  you 
know." 

"  And  Tinsley  ? " 

"  Oh,  he  must- indulge  his  pretty  wife,  of  course,  and  would 
swear  that  the  old  rascal  was  an  angel  if  it  would  only  win  a 
smile  from  her.  They  say  he  even  painted  a  portrait  of  him, 
from  memory ;  and,  savage  as  the  old  rebel  is,  made  him  look 
quite  amiable.  They  sold  everything  else  when  they  were 
starving,~but  they  wouldn't  part  with  that." 

A  loud  sob  burst  from  the  overcharged  bosom  of  farmer 
Bly  ;  he  leaned  for  a  moment  against  a  tree,  and  then  hurried 
forward  with  almost  the  bound  of  a  boy. 

"  He,  he  !  ha,  ha,  ha ! "  The  laugh  was  smothered,  but  it 
evidently  came  from  a  very  merry  heart.  And  oh,  what  a 
face  was  that  peering  above  the  clump  of  dog-wood  bushes ! 
Rug  Raffles  had  never  looked  so  entirely  convulsed  with  mirth 
before. 

"  I  've  done  him !  I  've  done  him !  The  old  fox  is  fast  in 
the  trap !  Hurra !  hurra !  Hip,  hip,  hip,  hurra !  The  birds 
don't  know  anything  or  they  'd  split  their  throats  a-hurraing 
and  a-laughing.  A'n't  I  a  public  benefactor? — no ;  this  time 
I  'm  a  private  one ;  and  should  n't  have  let  the  right  hand 
know  what  the  left  one  did,  only  that  they  had  to  talk  to  each 
other.  I  should  like  to  know  who  could  do  the  thing  up 
neater.  Pretty  well  for  you,  Rug  Raffles.  Come  to  think, 
Miss  Tinsley,  I  reckon  I  '11  just  take  back  that  coat.  You 
don't  seem  to  need  it  at  all  just  now.  Ha,  ha !  ha,  ha,  ha ! 
I  would  n't  have  believed  that  he  would  nibble  the  bait  so 
soon,  the  old  fox ;  though  I  gave  him  two  or  three  pretty 
tough  morsels,  to  be  sure.  He  could  n't  get  round  that  com- 
ing down  of  the  family;  it  hurt  his  feelings.  Ah,  that's  the 
dagger  that  I  stabbed  him  with.  That 'went  to  the  witals,' 


RUG    RAFFLES.  195 

as  the  saying  is.  And  then  I  come  it  over  him  with  the  soft. 
Lucky  enough  that  I  heard  about  that  picture  ;  that  was  what 
did  him  at  last — hurra!  Hurra  for  fun  and  Rug  Raffles! 
I  '11  trick  dame  Gaskill  into  making  the  coat,  I  will.  As 
though  a  rnan  was  any  the  worse  for  an  empty  pocket !  She 
to  say  it  too,  the  old  owl !  and  she  has  n't  a  red  cent  to  her 
name  !  I  '11  trick  her  ! "  And  down  sat  generous  Rug  Raffles 
to  devote  an  hour  of  his  precious  time  to  the  prudent  Mrs. 
Gaskill. 

It  was  a  bright  afternoon  ;  and  Arthur  Tinsley  sat  up  in 
his  bed,  leaning  against  an  inverted  chair.  His  wife,  as  ever, 
was  by  his  side,  and  bending  over  him  with  mingled  anxiety 
and  tenderness. 

"  I  should  like  some  paints,  Nelly,  if  you  can  get  them,"  he 
said  in  an  earnest  tone. 

"  I  will  try,  dear ;  but  you  must  n't  worry  if  I  am  two  or 
three  days  about  it.  This  hand  is  not  very  strong,  and  it  must 
not  busy  itself  too  soon.  When  you  are  well  again,  I  have 
a  grand  scheme  for  you." 

The  invalid  smiled  faintly,  and  then,  in  a  tone  of  touching 
tenderness,  answered,  "I  shall  never  be  well  till  the  sod  is 
over  my  bosom,  Nelly.  I  see  how  all  this  is  to  end;  I  am 
growing  weaker  and  weaker  every  day;  but  there  is  one  thing 
that  I  must  do — I  cannot  die  till  it  is  done.  There  is  but 
one  face  for  me  in  the  wide  universe — if  the  angels  in  heaven 
do  not  have  it,  I  cannot  love  them.  I  must  paint  your  face 
and  take  it  into  the  grave  with  me." 

"  You  will  not  die,  Arthur,  you  cannot  die !  The  doctor 
said  you  would  get  well  if  I  could  only  make  you  happy. 
Won't  you  be  happy  with  me,  Arthur?" 

"  We  will  both  be  happy  when  we  have  gone  home  to 
heaven,  Nelly ;  but  here,  never.  Nothing  has  ever  prospered 
with  us  since  the  day  of  our  marriage." 

"  We  have  loved  each  other." 

"  Ay,  overwhelmingly.  It  has  been  thy  curse,  my  Nelly ; 
and  when  I  am  gone — " 

A  tremendous  knock  at  the  door,  and  the  remainder  of  the 


196  KUG    RAFFLES. 

sentence  hung  suspended  on  the  invalid's  tongue,  while  dame 
Gaskill's  head  bobbed  out  of  the  window,  and  was  as  quickly 
withdrawn. 

"  Old  fanner  Ely,  as  I  live  !  Don't  be  in  a  flurry,  children  ! 
Oh  !  oh !  I  'm  a  most  scared  out  of  my  senses.  Don't  you 
open  the  door,  Nelly ;  I  'm  afraid  he  has  come  for  no  good  — 
wait  a  bit,  wait  a  bit,  child  ;  I  'd  better  open  it  myself.  Lud- 
a-marcy  !  she  has  no  fear  of  anything." 

Nelly  drew  the  latch-string  tremblingly ;  her  cheek  was 
flushed,  but  her  head  erect.  The  first  glance  was  enough, 
for  the  rough,  manly  face  was  full  of  eloquence. 

"  My  father ! " 

The  old  man's  arms  were  outspread;  and  the  trembling 
daughter  nestled  in  them  like  a  wearied  dove. 

"  The  old  house  is  desolate,  Nelly ;  I  cannot  live  there 
alone  any  longer,  and  you  must  come  back  to  me.  What, 
tears!  you  didn't  cry,  Nelly,  when  I  shut  the  door  in  your 
face  to  drown  what  you  were  saying  of  your  dead  baby.  But 
I  didn't  shut  out  your  voice,  I  heard  it  day  and  night — day 
and  night,  in  the  house  and  in  the  field — I  couldn't  get  rid 
of  it  anywhere.  Don't  cry  any  more,  Nelly — don't  cry ! 
your  tears  make  my  heart  ache.  If  you  had  told  me  that  the 
boy's  name  was  Harry — only  told  me,  I  might — but  I  don't 
know,  I  'm  an  old  tiger.  Will  you  come  and  live  with  me, 
Nelly?" 

The  daughter  raised  her  flushed  face  from  the  pillowing 
bosom  and  pointed  to  the  bed. 

"  Yes,  darling ;  bring  him  with  you  ;  the  house  is  big 
enough  for  all  of  us.  He  stole  my  only  child,  but — well,  it 
is  natural — it  is  natural !  They  say  he  is  dying,  too,  but  we 
will  not  let  him.  Money  gives  skill  to  the  doctors ;  and  you 
shall  both  be  well  and  happy.  These  pretty  cheeks  of  yours 
must  get  some  fulness  and  color.  Nelly  Bly  can't  be  an 
invalid,  nor — nor — curses  on  those  who  have  said  it — a 
pauper !  And  now,  Nelly,  darling,  bring  me  the  picture  that 
poor  Arthur  Tinsley  painted,  and  you  wouldn't  part  with 
when  you  were  starving.  Ah,  you  did  love  your  old  father 


RUG    RAFFLES.  197 

after  all,  though  you  left  him  for  a  stranger  !  That  almost 
broke  my  heart,  and  it  was  the  heart-break  which  made  a  sav- 
age of  me ;  but — but  you  were  right,  and  Arthur  Tinsley  is 
a  noble  fellow.  He  loved  you. when  your  own  flesh  and  blood 
cast  you  off." 

"  He,  he  !  ha,  ha,  ha ! "  No  one  in  dame  Gaskill's  cottage 
heard  tne  laugh,  or  saw  the  shaggy  round  head  peering  through 
the  open  window,  with  the  eyes  set  corner-wise,  and  the  lips 
drawn  up,  displaying  an  immense  gash  recognizable  by  all 
who  had  ever  seen  it,  as  the  mouth  of  Rug  Raffles. 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  Hurra !  hurra  for  fun  and  Rug  Raffles  ! 
Taste  again,  old  fox !  Two  such  strawberries  don't  grow  on 
every  stem.  Ha,  ha  !  Mistress  pretty-lips,  I  reckon  I  '11  just 
take  that  coat." 

VOL.  n.  17* 


193 


THE  FRENCH  EMIGRANTS. 

"  SEE,  mother,  see !  we  are  coming  nearer  and  nearer 
every  moment.  It  is  a  beautiful  town — so  bright  and  cheer- 
ful !  and  everything  looks  so  fresh  about  it !  Oh !  it  does 
one's  heart  good  to  see  the  land  again.  And  that  is  Fort 
James,  perched  on  that  high  point,  and  looking  down  as 
though  it  were  the  guardian  of  the  waters.  We  shall  be  very 
happy  here,  in  this  charm  ing  home!  —  You  look  sad,  mother." 

So  spake  a  slight,  dark-haired  stripling,  with  the  warm  hue 
of  a  southern  sun  upon  his  cheek ;  as,  leaning  over  the  ves- 
sel's side,  while  she  rode  proudly  into  the  harbor  of  New 
York,  he  fixed  his  glowing  eye  upon  the  long  hoped-for  asy- 
lum of  the  new  world.  The  young  queen  of  western  com- 
merce was  indeed  bright  that  morning ;  with  the  pretty  fort 
for  a  crown,  and  skirts  sweeping  back  into  the  green  shadow, 
all  jewelled  over  with  happy  hearth-stones.  Indeed,  never 
was  town  more  finely  spread  out  for  a  sea-view ;  and  the  yel- 
low Holland  brick,  of  which  many  of  the  buildings  were  con- 
structed, and  the  mingled  red  and  black  tiles  which  covered  the 
roofs  of  more,  with  the  glow  of  the  sunlight  upon  them,  made 
it  as  gay  as  a  sachem's  bride.  The  broad  banner  waved  and 
flaunted  cheerily  from  the  top  of  the  tall  flag-staff,  seeming  to 
promise  protection  to  the  stranger  and  the  defenceless ;  and 
as  the  ship  glided  majestically  over  the  just  rippling  waters, 
long  and  loud  were  the  cheers  that  arose  from  the  multitude 
collected  on  the  shore ;  and  the  formal  salutation  from  the  fort 
met  with  a  ready  response  from  the  hearty  crew.  All  now 
was  confusion  on  board — a  glad,  joyous  confusion;  pleased 
exclamations  fell  from  one  lip,  only  to  be  snatched  up  and 
echoed  by  another ;  and  handkerchiefs  fluttered  in  the  air,  in 
reply  to  like  signals  from  waiting  friends  on  the  land. 


THE    FRENCH   EMIGRANTS.  199 

1  You  look  sad,  mother,"  repeated  the  boy,  lowering  his 
voice,  till  its  soft  tones  contrasted  strangely  with  the  univer- 
sal gayety,  and  turning  upon  her  a  glance  of  tenderly  respect- 
ful inquiry. 

"  If  I  felt  so,  I  should  be  ungrateful,  my  son.  God  has 
guided  us  from  a  land  of  persecution  to  the  garden  which  he 
has  planted  for  his  oppressed.  But  you  spoke  of  home,  Fran- 
^ois,  and  I  thought  of  our  vine-covered  hills,  and  of  the  sunny 
valley,  on  the  banks  of  the  Loire,  where  I  have  left  sleep- 
ing all  but  you." 

"  Do  not  think  of  it  again,  my  mother." 

The  woman  pressed  her  hand  for  a  moment  against  her 
forehead,  as  though  stifling,  meanwhile,  some  deep  emotion ; 
then  said,  in  a  different  tone,  "  If  we  only  had  that  lost  cas- 
ket, Francois  !  The  captain  has  not  always  been  kind  to  us, 
and  I  dread  meeting  him  now — he  has  almost  seemed  to 
doubt  the  truth  of  our  story.  Heaven  help  us  !  but  it  will  be 
a  long  time  before  we  can  pay  this  passage  money !  " 

"  Never  fear  for  that,  mother ;  money  comes  almost  by  the 
asking,  they  say,  here,  and'l  shall  soon  be  a  man,  now.  I  will 
bu-ild  you  a  little  cabin  under  the  shelter  of  the  trees.  The 
men  have  told  me  just  how  it  is  done,  and  I  long  to  be  at  work 
this  very  moment.  I  will  build  you  a  nice  cabin,  and  I  will 
kill  game  which  you  shall  cook  for  us  two,  and  we  will  sit 
down  at  evening,  just  as  we  used  to  sit  in  our  pretty  cottage 
in  France,  before  that  horrible  persecution,  and  you  shall  — 
Don't  look  so  troubled,  mother ;  you  are  thinking  of  this  ugly 
affair  of  the  money,  now.  I  can  trade  in  furs,  and — do  —  I 
hardly  know  what,  but  just  what  the  other  settlers  do  to  get 
rich  in  a  day.  You  must  remember  that  I  am  not  a  little  boy, 
now,  but  can  take  care  of  myself,  and  you  too  ;  and  they  tell 
me  that  the  term  Huguenot  is  an  honorable  one  here.  Oh ! 
we  shall  be  very  happy  !  think  you  not  so,  mother  ?  " 

"  Anywhere,  with  thee,  my  noble  boy ! "  returned  the  mat- 
ron, gazing  fondly  upon  the  eloquent  young  face  turned  so 
earnestly  to  hers.  "  With  freedom  to  worship  God  as  he  has 
bidden,  and  with  thee,  my  last  earthly  hope  and  trust,  beside 
me,  what  more  could  I  ask  or  desire  ? " 


200  THE    FRENCH    EMIGRANTS. 

The  ship  had  anchored  in  the  bay,  and  hurriedly  the  sea- 
wearied  passengers  were  landing.  Many  citizens  had  come 
on  board  ;  and,  on  the  shore,  friend  grasped  the  hand  of  friend, 
with  such  cordial  words  of  greeting  as  the  first  heart-bound 
carried  to  the  lip.  Among  all  glad  ones,  none  were  gladder 
than  the  enthusiastic  French  lad.  With  bared  head,  and  joy- 
flashing  eye,  he  stood  beside  his  mother  watching  the  happy 
throng,  as  though  in  their  happiness  he  could  forget  his  own 
exile.  But  that  was  not  the  source  of  his  animation.  He 
was  looking  to  the  future  —  his  young  spirit  buoyed  up  by 
hopes  as  yet  unintelligible  to  himself,  but  brighter  for  the 
very  veil  which  covered  them  ;  and  his  heart  beating  with  the 
tenderness  which  was  all  centred  on  one  human  being  —  his 
widowed,  and,  but  for  him,  childless  mother. 

"  Stand  here  a  moment,  and  I  will  see  where  we  can  be  set 
ashore.  I  am  longing  to  plant  my  foot  on  that  spot  of  green." 
So  saying,  the  youth  mingled  in  the  crowd,  and  the  widow 
turned  her  eyes  from  the  view  of  her  new  home,  to  follow, 
with  the  fond  pride  of  a  mother,  his  graceful  figure  as  it 
moved,  all  unlike  the  others,  about  the  deck.  In  a  few  mo- 
ments he  returned,  the  masses  of  raven  hair,  which  had  been 
flung  back  to  allow  the  fragrant  land-breezes  to  play  upon  his 
temples,  half-shading  his  pale  cheek,  and  his  white  lip  quiv- 
ering with  agitation. 

"  Francois  !  what  is  it,  my  son  ?  speak  ! ' 

"Oh!  it  is  too  much  —  too  much!  I  shall  die  here,  so 
near  the  land  !  "  and  the  boy,  forgetting  his  boast  of  manhood, 
leaned  over  the  railing  and  wept  passionately. 

The  mother  placed  her  hand  soothingly  upon  his  glossy  curls, 
which  shook  as  though  the  throbbing  heart  below  had  been  in 
them  ;  and  waited  patiently  his  explanation. 

"  We  must  stay  here,  mother  —  and  I  cannot  live  in  this 
horrid  ship  another  night,  I  am  sure  I  cannot." 

"  We  have  spent  many  happy  nights  and  days  in  it,  my 
son,"  returned  the  widow,  softly ;  "  but  why  must  we  stay 
now  ?  Who  detains  us  ?  " 

"  We  cannot  land  till  the  ship  charges  are  paid  —  so  they 
have  told  me  ;  and  that  will  be  never  —  never." 


THE    FRENCH    EMIGRANTS.  201 

A  look  of  troubled  surprise  spread  itself  over  the  widow's 
countenance ;  but  still  her  spirit  was  in  subjection  to  the  care- 
ful tenderness  of  the  mother.  "  I  am  sorry  for  your  sake, 
Francois  ;  but  cheer  up,  my  son !  It  will  do  them  no  good 
to  detain  us  here,  and  they  will  let  us  go  in  the  morning — I 
am  sure  they  will." 

"If  they  would  set  me  on  the  land,  I  would  work  like  a 
galley-slave,  but  they  should  receive  the  uttermost  farthing." 

"  We  will  tell  them  so — we  will  tell  them  so.  Cheer  up, 
Francois,  and  let  us  look  upon  the  city  again.  It  is  but  a 
little  while  till  morning." 

Francois  seemed  to  make  an  effort  for  his  mother's  sake, 
and  raised  his  head ;  but  how  changed  was  the  expression  of 
those  two  faces,  as  they  again  turned  towards  the  land ! 

Only  a  few  feet  from  the  exiles,  had  stood,  for  the  last  ten 
minutes,  a  person  who  regarded  them  closely,  though  by  them 
entirely  unnoticed.  His  mild  blue  eyes,  and  fair,  good-hu- 
mored face,  bespoke  him  a  Hollander ;  and  the  massive  silver 
buckles  at  his  knees  and  on  his  shoes  proclaimed  him  an 
individual  of  some  consequence,  which  was  farther  confirmed 
by  -the  deferential  manner  of  those  around  him.  A  close 
observer  would  have  detected  a  strange  mixture  of  the  child 
and  the  man  in  that  face.  The  eye  was  soft  and  gentle  as  a 
woman's,  while  the  mouth  evinced  a  singular  degree  of  firm- 
ness and  decision ;  and,  though  the  very  spirit  of  benevolence 
rested  on  the  retreating  forehead,  with  its  crown  of  half-silvered 
hair,  the  bold  determination,  with  which  the  broad  nostril  was 
now  and  then  expanded,  contradicted  the  bare  supposition  of 
weakness.  His  attention  had  been  attracted  by  the  interest 
ing  foreigners  ;  he  had  seen  the  boy  bound,  like  a  freed  deer, 
from  the  side  of  his  mother,  and  return  drooping  and  dispirited ; 
and  he  had  seen  that  mother  stifling  some  deep  emotion  for 
the  sake  of  her  boy.  It  was  evident  that  he  did  not  under- 
stand their  language,  for  he  watched  them  as  though  studying 
out  the  cause  of  their  sorrow,  until  they  turned  away  their 
faces ;  and  then,  with  a  look  of  sympathy,  he  left  them,  prob 


202  THE    FRENCH    EMIGRANTS. 

ably  believing  them  to  be  of  the  number  who  had  crossed  the 
ocean  in  search  of  friends,  to  find  them  only  in  their  graves. 

Two  days  passed,  and  still  the  lone  Huguenot  strangers 
were  prisoners  in  the  ship,  in  sight  of  the  green  earth  and  of 
cheerful  firesides. 

"  This,"  exclaimed  the  widow,  as  she  crouched  in  the  cabin, 
desolate  and  heart-sick,  "  this  is  worse  than  all  the  rest — not 
for  me — /could  bear  it — 1  could  bear  anything  alone;  but 
my  poor,  poor  boy  ! " 

She  was  roused  by  a  slow,  dragging  step,  so  unlike  the 
elastic  spring  of  her  idol,  that,  but  for  its  lightness,  she  would 
not  have  recognized  it. 

"  Mother,  it  is  decided — I  have  just  learned  our  fate  ;"  and 
the  fragile  boy  sunk,  like  a  crushed  blossom,  at  her  feet. 

The  widow  tried  to  assume  a  tone  of  encouragement. 
"  What  is  it,  Francois  ?  anything  is  better  than  this  close 
ship,  with  the  green  earth  and  shady  trees  so  near  us.  I  can- 
not bear  to  see  you  droop  and  pine,  my  love — if  they  would 
but  give  you  back  the  strength  and  pride  this  sorrow  has 
stolen — if  I  could  but  see  your  bright  head  erect  again — " 

"  It  never  can  be,  mother ;  better  that  we  both  were  dead 
—  dead  in  our  graves  in  France  !  Oh  !  why  did  we  ever 
come  away  ?  There  they  would  give  us  nothing  worse  than 
a  dungeon  or  a  coffin ;  here  they  will  not  let  us  so  hide  our- 
selves— will  not  let  us  die.  What  think  you,  mother?" 
and  now,  the  boy,  dashing  the  hair  back  from  his  forehead, 
changed  his  mournful  tone  to  one  of  mad  energy.  "  In  an 
hour  or  two,  we  are  to  be  exposed  in  their  market-place,  in 
the  open  street — sold  like  their  Holland  plough-horses  and 
Utrecht  heifers—" 

The  widow's  life  might  have  gone  out  from  her,  in  that  one 
wild  scream  of  heart-piercing  agony.  She  was  prepared  for 
toil — for  suffering  in  almost  every  shape.  She  could  have 
borne  even  slavery,  herself;  but  her  boy,  her  proud,  high- 
hearted boy  !  the  beautiful  blossom  that  God  hid  given  to 
bless  her  bereavement!  the  bird,  that,  if  but  an  autumn  breeze 
shook  the  roof-tree  rudely,  had  nestled  in  her  bosom  for  pro- 


THE    FRENCH    EMIGRANTS.  203 

lection! — her  frail,  but  noble  boy,  so  delicate,  so  gentle  to 
her,  yet  so  spirited  !  —  should  he,  too,  be  crushed  beneath  a 
foot  triple-shod  with  iron  ?  Should  his  fair,  polished  limbs, 
through  which  she  had  so  often  traced  the  flow  of  the  red  life- 
current,  which  her  lip  had  touched,  and  her  loving  eye  admired, 
canker  beneath  the  heavy  chain  of  a  life-lasting  bondage  ? 
Should  that  eagle  eye  grow  cold  in  childhood  ?  that  bright 
lip  forget  its  smile  ?  that  free,  gladsome  heart  become  the 
grave  of  all  its  freshly  budding  wealth  of  feeling  ?  Was  there 
no  appeal  ?  Could  she  not  find,  in  the  crowd  which  thronged 
that  busy  city,  a  single  human  heart  which  she  could  excite 
to  something  like  sympathy  ?  that  would  be  content  to  crush 
her  to  the  earth,  wring  her  spirit  till  every  cord  should  snap 
asunder,  and  save  her  boy  ?  Alas  !  what  could  be  done  by  a 
stranger,  a  lone,  feeble  woman,  confined  to  her  prison  in  the 
ship  ?  If  she  could  be  led  forth  to  the  haunts  of  men,  and 
they  would  listen,  those  who  could  understand  her  language 
were  fugitives  like  herself,  and  probably  nearly  as  helpless. 
So  the  miserable  Frenchwoman  crouched  upon  the  low  settle 
in  entire  helplessness,  and  moaned  as  though  her  spirit  would 
have  passed  on  each  breath.  Minute  after  minute,  minute 
after  minute  of  slowly  moving  time  went  by ;  and  still  the 
sobbing  boy  rested  his  forehead  upon  his  mother's  knees ;  and 
still  the  mother  clasped  her  hands,  and  moaned  on. 

There  was  a  quick,  heavy  tread,  upon  the  cabin  stairs ;  but 
neither  looked  up.  It  came  nearer,  and  paused  beside  them ; 
but  the  woe-laden  exiles  moved  not ;  they  had  no  ear  for  any- 
thing but  their  own  misery. 

"  I  have  good  news  for  you,  madam,"  commenced  a  some- 
what harsh  voice,  hesitatingly,  "  good  news — do  you  hear 
me  ?  can  you  listen  ?  " 

The  widow  raised  an  alarmed  eye  to  the  face  of  the  speaker, 
and  clung,  with  a  desperate  grasp,  to  her  son. 

The  boy's  apprehension  was  quicker.  "  Good  news ! 
What  ?  In  God's  name,  do  not  mock  us  ! " 

"  I  am  sent  by  one,  who  cannot  speak  our  language,  to 
say—" 


2U4  THE    FRENCH    EMIGRANTS. 

The  man  paused  a  moment  to  note  the  effect  of  his  words. 

"  Speak  on  ! "  exclaimed  Francois ;  "  you  torture  us." 

"  To  say  that  your  ship  charges  are  paid ;  and  you  are  free, 
free  to  go  wherever  you  list." 

The  widow  stared  in  eager  doubt,  her  hand  still  grasping 
firmly  the  arm  of  her  boy.  But  Francois  !  the  drooping  blos- 
som of  the  moment  previous  !  How  the  eloquent  blood  came 
rushing  to  his  cheek,  and  how  his  dark  eye  flashed  with 
awakened  hope  !  Not  a  single  exclamation  broke  from  his 
lip  ;  but  he  stood  like  a  proud  young  eagle  pluming  his  wings 
for  flight. 

It  was  several  minutes  before  the  exiles  were  prepared  to 
listen  to  an  explanation  of  their  good  fortune.  When  they 
did,  they  were  told  simply  that  a  benevolent  merchant,  endeared 
to  the  common  people  of  New  York  for  his  many  virtues,  had 
seen  them  on  the  day  of  their  arrival,  and  had  found  his  sym- 
pathies deeply  enlisted  by  their  evident  disappointment,  and 
the  sorrow  it  occasioned.  Afterwards,  he  lost  sight  of  them 
until  the  decision  of  the  tribunal,  which  would  have  made 
them  slaves ;  when,  finding  his  influence  insufficient  to  pre- 
vent the  disgraceful  proceedings,  he  had  stepped  in  with  his 
purse,  and  discharged  the  debt. 

"  You  are  now  free  to  go  wherever  you  like,"  continued 
the  good-natured  interpreter,  "  but  you  are  invited  to  the  house 
of  your  benefactor,  where  you  will  find  friends,  and  a  home 
until  you  choose  to  leave  it." 

"  God  bless  the  noble  merchant !  I  will  be  his  slave  for- 
ever ! "  exclaimed  Francois,  his  heart  swelling  with  enthusi- 
astic gratitude. 

The  widow's  lips  moved,  and  warm  tears,  for  the  first  time, 
gushed  from  her  eyes,  and  rained  down  over  her  face  ;  but 
her  voice  was  too  much  broken  by  emotion  to  convey  the  sen- 
timent she  would  have  uttered. 

By  the  dock  stood,  (his  heart  in  his  face  and  that  all  sun- 
shine,) a  blue-eyed,  bright-haired  youth,  with  the  merchant's 
own  forehead,  and  a  lip  of  lighter  and  more  graceful  mould. 
The  young  Hollander  was  scarce  inferior  in  beauty,  as  he 


THE    FRENCH   EMIGRANTS.  205 

waited  there  to  perform  his  most  grateful  task,  to  Francois 
himself.  The  merchant  had  heen  too  modest  to  appear  as  a 
benefactor  in  the  public  street,  well  known  as  he  was,  and  he 
had  sent  his  son  to  bring  home  the  strangers.  A  snug  little 
wagon,  such  as  was  commonly  used  by  the  better  sort  of  Hol- 
landers, awaited  them,  and  they  were  soon  seated  and  pro- 
ceeding on  their  way.  As  they  neared  the  market-place,  and 
the  merchant's  son  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  crowd  assembled, 
(some,  uninformed  of  what  had  occurred,  to  witness  the  sale  of 
the  helpless  strangers,  and  some  to  report  and  expatiate  upon 
the  generous  deed  of  their  townsman,)  he  instantly  gave  the 
reins  to  his  horses,  and  turned  his  head  in  an  opposite  direc- 
tion. There  was  at  first  a  slight  movement  in  the  crowd,  face 
after  face  turning  toward  the  street.  Then  came  a  low  mur- 
mur, swelling  gradually  higher  and  higher,  till  at  last  it  burst 
into  a  mighty  and  universal  shout,  "  LONG  LIVE  THE  NOBLE 
LEISLER  ! "  "  LEISLER  FOREVER  ! "  "  LEISLER  FOREVER  !" 
VOL.  u.  18 


206 


IDA    RAVELIN. 

A   FANTASY. 

11 1  SEE  nothing  peculiar  about  her." 

Very  coolly  and  complacently  dropped  the  above  words  from 
lips  which  seemed  to  be  totally  unaware  of  the  deed  of  death 
they  were  doing ;  crushing  the  rare  fancies  of  love's  weaving, 
with  the  same  indifference  that  your  horse  dyes  his  coarse 
hoofs  in  prairie-blossoms,  or  the  followers  of  the  Prophet  treat 
an  inconvenient  beauty  to  a  coral  pillow  and  a  silver  coverlet. 
A  heart-swell,  deeper  than  a  sigh,  a  quick  flushing  over  of 
the  cheeks  and  forehead,  then  a  closing  of  the  slightly  parted 
lips,  a  drooping  of  the  lids,  and  a  tenderly  caressing  movement 
of  the  hands,  followed  this  confession  of  short-sightedness. 
Oh  !  what  cold,  blind,  unappreciative  beings  fathers  are  !  As 
though  genius  never  hid  itself  under  a  baby-cap ! 

"/see  nothing  peculiar  about  her." 

The  faithless  father,  as  he  repeated  his  observation,  brushed 
back  the  hair  from  his  full,  mathematical  forehead,  and,  cast- 
ing on  his  wife  a  glance  full  of  pity  for  her  weakness,  turned 
to  a  huge  folio  volume  spread  open  on  the  table  beside  him, 
and  resumed  the  business  in  which  he  had  been  interrupted. 
The  mother,  however,  was  not  abashed,  only  silenced.  She 
passed  her  fingers  over  the  vein-crossed  forehead  of  her  sleep- 
ing child,  measuring  the  distances  on  it  with  her  lips ;  then 
took  the  fat  little  hand  in  her  own,  still  following  the  purple 
current  till  it  terminated  in  the  rosy-tipped  fingers. 

"  Direct  from  the  heart,"  she  murmured ;  "  God  help  thee, 
my  Ida ! "  As  she  spoke,  the  child  opened  wide  a  pair  of 
dark,  burning  eyes,  and  fixed  them  on  her  face  with  the  far- 
reaching  expression  she  had  often  observed,  and  which 
seemed  to  her  indicative  of  something  like  "  second-sight." 


IDA    RAVELIN.  207 

"  There  ! "  exclaimed  the  mother  triumphantly,  yet  without 
venturing  to  point  -a  finger ;  for  it  seemed  as  though  the  child 
read  her  thoughts. 

"  Her  eyes  are  certainly  very  bright ;  something  like  yours, 
Mary." 

"  Oh  !  you  don't  see  it — you  don't  see  it '  God  help  her; 
for  genius  is  a  dangerous  gift ! " 

"  God  help  her ! "  echoed  the  father  with  a  half  sigh. 

He  meant  his  wife. 

And  what  did  bring  those  two  strangely  assorted  people 
together  ?  Certainly  not  sympathy.  It  might  have  been  a 
trick  of  Dan  Cupid's ;  but  even  he,  with  all  his  perverse 
blindness,  seldom  makes  such  a  blunder  as  that.  Besides, 
they  did  not  look  very  much  like  turtle  doves ;  and  nothing 
less  than  entireness  of  idolatry,  the  wildest  infatuation,  could 
have  bidden  fate  to  spread  the  roof  over  heads  so  different. 
The  marble-browed,  marble-hearted  philosopher,  and  the 
Pythoness !  I  never  saw  an  improvisatrice  ;  but  I  dare  say 
that  Mary  Ravelin  looked  more  like  this  wild  daughter  of 
passion  and  poesy  than  any  being  since  the  days  of  the  burn- 
ing-lipped Corinna.  Oh  !  a  superb  creature  was  Mary  Rave- 
lin, with  her  dark,  regal  brow,  and  sloe-colored  eyes,  centred 
by  a  blazing  diamond.  And  that  she,  of  all  peerless  ones, 
should  be  the  wife  of  the  sluggish-hearted  Thomas  Ravelin  ! 
How  did  it  come  to  pass  ?  Enough  that  the  bird  of  Jove 
does  sometimes  consort  with  the  barn-yard  fowl — I  mean 
when  these  bipeds  are  minus  the  feathers.  Plumed  things 
keep  up  the  natural  distinctions,  which  the  philosopher's 
plucked  turkey  is  striving  with  all  his  might  to  destroy.  But 
the  most  vexatious  part  of  the  business  was,  that  Thomas 
Ravelin  never  knew  that  he  was  the  possesser  of  a  double 
diamond ;  and  really  rated  his  wife  below  other  women,  in 
proportion  as  she  rose  above  them.  Did  Mary  submit  to  the 
thraldom?  Certainly.  Like  the  generality  of  mankind,  she 
did  not  know  herself.  She  might,  at  times,  have  had  a  kind 
of  inward  consciousness  that  heaven  had  stamped  her  soul 
with  a  loftier  seal  than  others ;  she  certainly  knew  that  she 


ZUS  IDA    RAVELIN. 

felt  unlike  them ;  and  there  was  a  depth  and  intensity  in  her 
nature,  a  tumultuous  sea  of  passion  and  pathos  that  sometimes 
broke  over  all  boundaries,  and  gave  her  a  momentary  power 
and  grandeur,  acknowledged  by  all  but  one.  There  was 
something  in  the  smile  between  pity  and  contempt  which 
greeted  her  at  such  moments,  well  calculated  to  tame  the 
sybil.  She  feared  her  husband ;  not  because  he  was  unkind, 
but  his  glance  stilled  her  gushing  heart,  and  cast  a  strange 
spell  upon  her  passionate  spirit.  And  Mary  Ravelin  was  far 
from  being  happy.  No  undeveloped  nature  is  happy.  The 
inward  stirring,  the  aimless  restlessness  of  spirit — oh!  we 
feel  what  we  are,  when  we  do  not  know  it.  Neither  can  a 
misplaced  nature  be  happy:  cage  the  sky-lark,  or  bring  the 
spotted  trout  to  your  bower  of  roses,  and  see.  So,  though 
flashes  of  her  real  inner  self  were  every  day  breaking  forth 
like  summer  lightning,  Mary  Ravelin's  higher  nature  was 
undeveloped ;  her  wings  had  been  clipped ;  she  had  been 
borne  away  out  of  her  native  element,  and  she  was  conse- 
quently miserable.  Well  for  her  that  she  had  one  sustaining, 
regulating  principle.  But  even  her  religion  was  unlike  her 
husband's.  It  was  the  deep,  impassioned  faith,  the  high- 
wrought  enthusiasm  of  the  martyrs.  It  was  the  only  field  in 
which  her  lofty  nature  might  revel  uncontrolled ;  in  which 
her  power  of  loving  might  be  called  into  action  to  its  utmost 
stretch ;  where  the  high  and  the  beautiful  all  combined,  with 
a  harmony  to  which  her  own  bosom  furnished  an  echo.  It 
was  this  which  subdued  the  impatient  soul  of  Mary  Ravelin ; 
made  her  the  careful  wife — I  had  almost  said  the  uncom- 
plaining slave — of  a  man  who  believed  himself  acting  a 
kindly  part  when  he  drew  the  chain  about  her  spirit.  Who 
dare  call  this  an  inferior  kind  of  martyrdom  ? 

Ida  was  romping,  still  in  baby-frock  and  pinafore,  among 
the  vines  in  the  garden  —  now  thrusting  her  white  arm  among 
the  leaves  to  grasp  the  bared  shoulders  of  an  elder  sister,  now 
shaking  the  blossoms  above  her  head  till  they  rained  down 
upon  her  like  a  shower  of  colored  rain-drops,  then  creeping 
away  under  the  deep  shadows,  as  a  hare  would  hide  itself, 


IDA    RAVELIN.  209 

and  raising  her  ringing  voice  to  challenge  pursuit.  Ida  might 
have  been  a  genius,  but  she  was  no  mere  spirit-child.  There 
was  a  love  of  the  real,  the  actual,  the  earnest,  breathing  a 
world  of  life  in  every  turn  of  her  pliant  limbs,  and  in  every 
glance  of  her  eye.  Whatever  might  have  been  swelling  and 
shaping  itself  in  the  deep  recesses  of  mind,  there  was  a  world 
without  that  she  gloried  in,  loving  it  all  the  more  for  the  key  to 
its  wondrous  wealth  which  she  bore  in  her  bosom.  And  so  she 
frolicked  on,  clapping  her  hands  and  laughing,  and  scamper- 
ing off  on  her  chubby  little  feet  to  plunge  headlong  into  the 
fragrant  thicket,  or  tumble  into  the  arms  of  her  playmates, 
with  a  hearty  joyousness  truly  refreshing.  Suddenly  she 
paused  in  the  midst  of  her  wildest  play,  pressed  the  tip  of  a 
rosy  finger  against  the  already  fully  developed  corner  of  her 
forehead,  and  gazed  fixedly  into  the  distance.  The  children 
frolicked  before  her,  but  she  did  not  move  a  muscle ;  they 
attempted  to  take  her  hand,  but  she  uttered  a  cry,  as  of  pain, 
and  they  desisted. 

"  There,  Thomas  ! " 

"  What  ? " 

'<  She  sees  something." 

"  I  should  think  not ;  she  seems  to  be  gazing  on  vacancy. " 

"  I  tell  you,  Thomas  Ravelin,  that  child  has  a  spirit  in  her 
beyond  the  common.  Whether  we  have  cause  to  weep  or 
rejoice,  we  are  yet  to  know." 

The  husband  looked  a  little  interested.  "  Her  tempera- 
ment certainly  differs  essentially  from  Ruth's.  She  must  be 
carefully  educated,  her  tendencies  checked  —  she  must  be 
taught  self-control  —  " 

"  Taught !  checked  !  educated !     My  poor  Ida ! " 

The  mother  said  no  more.  She  seemed  to  be  re-perusing 
leaves  of  her  own  life,  long  since  turned  over ;  and  as  she 
read  she  trembled.  The  child's  future  presented  a  dismal 
page,  for  she  saw  it  by  the  glooming  light  of  her  own  sunless 
past. 

"  So  unlike  other  children ! "  whispered  the  mother  to  her- 
self, as  she  stooped  among  the  vines,  and  took  her  idol  to  her 

VOL.  n.  18* 


210  IDA   RAVELIN. 

bosom.  The  child  turned  its  dark  eyes  upon  her  wonderingly, 
passed  its  little  hand  across  her  throbbing  temples,  patted  her 
flushed  cheek,  twined  her  black  tresses  for  a  few  moments 
about  its  fingers,  then  nestled  in  her  bosom  and  slept  —  cer- 
tainly not  unlike  other  children. 

"  Don't  teach  her  any  of  your  romantic  notions,  Mary," 
eaid  Thomas  Ravelin  one  day,  when  Ida  had  again  become 
the  subject  of  conversation. 

"  Teach  her !  No,  Thomas,  she  is  taught  of  a  Higher  than 
I  am —  there  is  that  within  which  may  be  shut,  locked  there, 
but  you  cannot  take  it  away.  My  poor  Ida ! " 

"  Ruth  is  now  eighteen ;  she  is  well  taught  and  discreet, 
with  a  strong  judgment  —  " 

"  Ruth  is  my  dependence." 

"  You  have  perfect  confidence  in  her  judgment  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Sometimes  you  even  go  to  her  for  counsel  ? " 

"  Oh,  Ruth  has  five  times  the  worldly  wisdom  that  I  have." 

"  Give  Ida  to  her  care,  then." 

"  What ! " 

"  There  is  something  in  Ida's  character  out  of  tune  —  let 
her  have  —  let  her  assist  you  in  regulating  it." 

"  She  can't  —  she  can't !  Ida  has  more  wisdom  than  all 
of  us." 

"  Madam,"  interposed  Thomas  Ravelin,  sternly,  "  this  is 
folly.  Have  done  with  these  fancies,  or  the  ruin  of  your  child 
will  be  on  your  own  head.  Ida  must  be  curbed  and  properly 
trained  —  " 

"  Then  her  mother's  hand  shall  do  it,"  interrupted  Mary, 
with  proud  dignity. 

"  As  you  will,  Mary  ;  but  you  well  know  the  fruits  of  an 
ill-regulated  imagination." 

The  mother  crossed  her  arms  on  her  breast,  and  raised  her 
eyes  upward.  She  was  praying  God  for  wisdom. 

"He  is  right  —  I  shall  make  her  as  miserable  as  I  have 
been,"  was  the  burden  of  her  reflections  that  evening ;  "  but 
can  I  give  up  the  budding  intellect  to  another's  watchings  ? 


IDA    RAVELIN.  211 

No,  no !  the  sweet  task  of  guiding  and  pruning  be  mine.  But 
I  have  so  many  faults.  He  calls  me  a  creature  of  impulse, 
unreasoning,  and  Ruth  is  always  so  correct  —  always  in  the 
right  —  I  shall  need  her  judgment.  Anything  for  thy  sake, 
my  Ida.  I  have  reason  to  distrust  myself,  and  Ruth  shall 
share  the  dearest  of  all  duties  with  me." 

Ruth  did  share  in  what  should  have  been  altogether  a  love 
labor;  and  little  Ida,  though  seemingly  untamable,  had  a 
system  of  thought  and  action  prescribed,  which,  however  in- 
effective it  might  have  been  in  the  case  of  an  inferior  nature, 
soon  began  to  exhibit  quaker-like  results.  Instead  of  devel- 
oping her  nature,  it  was  repressed,  as  an  ignorant  man  would 
try  to  extinguish  a  kindling  fire  by  smothering  it  in  cotton ; 
she  was  carefully  guarded  against  little  outbreaks  of  feeling, 
when,  instead,  her  feelings  should  have  been  called  out,  and 
directed  in  proper  channels.  And  so,  by  degrees,  the  mother's 
influence  was  lost;  and  she  grew  afraid  to  take  the  child  upon 
her  knee,  and  draw  out,  as  had  been  her  wont,  the  charming 
little  fancies  which  form  the  staple  of  the  thoughts  of  child- 
hood. She  watched  it  tenderly  and  jealously,  treasured  all 
its-  little  sayings  in  her  heart,  gazing  into  its  deep  eyes  with 
the  far-reaching  sight  of  Cassandra;  but,  like  those  of 
Cassandra,  her  prophecies  were  unheeded.  To  all  but  her 
mother,  Ida  was  a  pretty,  frolicksome  child  ;  with  nothing  to 
distinguish  her  from  other  children,  except,  perhaps,  an  unu- 
sual flow  of  spirits,  and  those  strange  fits  of  abstraction  which 
even  Ruth  had  not  the  art  to  cure. 

"  Ida  !  Ida !  Ida ! "  shouted  Phil  Ravelin. 

It  was  useless.  Ida  sat  upon  a  mossed  knoll,  her  hands 
clasped  over  her  knee,  and  her  bright  face,  with  its  parted 
lips,  and  eager,  weird  eyes,  looking  out  from  the  dark  masses 
of  hair  which  fell,  almost  too  luxuriantly  for  childhood,  about 
her  beautiful  shoulders. 

"  Ida,  are  you  asleep  ?  look  here,  Ida  ! " 

The  boy  waited  a  moment,  and  then  shook  her  by  the 
shoulder.  Ida  uttered  a  shriek,  as  thoxigh  in  pain. 


212  IDA    RAVELKV. 

"  Ida  !  look  up,  Ida  !     I  have  something  to  tell  you." 

The  little  girl  shook  off  his  hand,  and  sprang,  like  a  scared 
gazelle,  to  the  nearest  thicket. 

"  I  won't  follow  her,"  muttered  the  boy,  drawing  the  corner 
of  his  jacket  across  his  eyes ;  "  it  is  too  bad  ;  and  they  shan't 
make  me  hurt  her  again  —  indeed,  they  shall  not.  Poor  little 
Ida ! " 

Half  an  hour  afterwards  Ida  had  snuggled  down  in  the 
deep  grass  with  her  brother,  talking  with  him  most  confiden- 
tially, but  not  of  her  strange  malady.  At  last  Phil  ventured 
to  make  mention  of  it.  There  had  been  a  long  silence,  and 
he  forgot  that  Ida's  thoughts  did  not  probably  follow  in  the 
same  channel  with  his. 

"  What  makes  you  do  it,  Ida  ?  " 

The  little  girl  was  plucking  away  with  tender  care  the 
leaves  of  a  buttercup,  and  she  answered,  without  raising  her 
eyes,  "  I  want  to  find  the  angel  in  it." 

"  In  what  ?  " 

"  This." 

"  Why,  angels  are  away  beyond  the  blue,  Ida.  To  think 
of  an  angel,  with  its  great  white  wings,  and  may  be  its  big 
harp,  too,  coming  down  from  heaven  to  live  in  a  poor  little 
buttercup  !  Whew  !  " 

Ida  smiled  pityingly,  as  though  she  knew  much  more  about 
these  things  than  her  brother  could  know ;  but  did  not  care  to 
enlighten  his  ignorance. 

"  But  what  were  you  thinking  of,  Ida,  when  I  came  to  you 
a  little  while  ago  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  You  sat  looking  so ;"  and  Phil  mimicked  his  sister  as  well 
as  he  could.  "  What  did  you  see  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  I  guess." 

"  Now,  Ida ! " 

The  little  girl's  cheek  flushed,  and  her  lips  grew  tremulous, 
but  she  made  no  answer. 

"  Tell  7tie,  Ida,  dear — just  me  —  whisper,  if  you  don't  want 
to  speak  loud.  Come,  put  your  lips  close.  Won't  you  tell, 
Ida?" 


IDA    KAVEL1N.  213 

Ida  looked  at  her  brother  expressively,  and  seemed  bewil- 
dered. 

"  You  are  not  a  good  girl  —  and  I  will  never  love  you 
any  more  —  never  —  because  —  because  —  won't  you  tell  me, 
Ida?" 

"I  —  I  —  sometimes  I  see  a  great  world,  not  like  this,  and 
hear  —  love  me,  Phil,  love  me;  for  it  hurts  me  to  tell.  It  is 
very  strange  —  I  have  been  there  some  time,  long,  long  ago 
—  and,  Phil,  I  am  not  your  little  Ida  there.  Don't  ask  me 
any  more,  but  you  must  love  me,  Phil ! "  and  the  child  sank, 
sobbing  with  excitement,  into  the  arms  of  her  brother. 

Phil  repeated,  at  home,  what  his  sister  had  said ;  and  Ida 
was  pronounced  the  victim  of  a  temporary  insanity.  She  was 
carefully  watched  over,  and  the  subject  never  mentioned  to 
her  again. 

"  Not  like  other  children  ! "  repeated  little  Ida  Ravelin  to 
herself,  "  I  have  heard  that  before.  Oh  !  now  I  remember  j 
she  used  to  whisper  it  over  me  when  I  was  a  baby.  I  wonder 
how  I  differ."  Ida  carefully  examined  her  feet,  her  hands, 
passed  her  fingers  along  her  full,  white  arms,  bent  the  elbow, 
curved  the  wrist,  folded  the  ringers  in  the  palm,  clapped  her 
hands,  shook  them  above  her  head,  walked  with  her  head 
erect  and  foot  firm,  skipped,  danced,  tried  her  voice,  first  in  a 
shout,  then  in  laughter  at  the  returning  echoes,  then  in  a  gush 
of  bird-like  warblings,  and,  finally,  knelt  quietly  beside  a  clear 
pool,  which  mirrored  her  bright  face.  Little  Ida  might  well 
have  been  startled  at  the  rare  vision  in  the  water.  A  con- 
noisseur would  not  have  pronounced  her  beautiful ;  but  vet 
she  was  exquisitely  so ;  and  she  knew  it,  and  smiled  at  it. 
A  sweet  answering  smile,  like  a  visible  echo,  came  up  from 
the  water,  and  Ida  smiled  again.  But  the  innocent  vanity 
lasted  only  a  moment.  Her  next  thought  was,  "  How  do  I 
differ?  My  hair  is  dark,  and  glossy,  and  curling,  just  like 
Ruth's ;  my  nose,  and  chin,  and  lips,  and  cheeks  —  why,  they 
are  all  like  Phil's,  only  Phil's  are  a  little  darker,  and  not  quite 
so  soft ;  my  forehead  is  like  mamma's,  and  my  eyes  are  like 


214  IDA    RAVELIN. 

mamma's,  too,  not  so  large  and  handsome,  may  be,  but  I  am 
a  little  girl  yet.  1  wonder  how  I  differ?  I  can  talk,  and  — 
may  be  it  is  the  thinking.  But  I  don't  think  much —  I  piny 
most  of  the  time.  May  be  it  is  because  I  see  —  but  she 
don't  know  that.  Unlike  other  children !  What  can  it 
mean  ? "  and  Ida  shook  her  little  head,  as  though  it  were 
oppressed  by  the  weight  of  a  great  mystery.  The  subject  did 
not  grow  to  be  less  important  to  the  child  by  constantly  pon- 
dering on  it.  Her  laughing  eyes  became  daily  more  thought- 
ful ;  but  yet,  as  she  had  said,  she  loved  her  play. 

Ida  had  crept  from  her  bed,  and  stood  in  her  night  dress, 
her  little  figure  all  bathed  in  the  golden-hued  moonlight. 
How  like  a  spirit  she  looked,  poised  so  lightly  on  her  tiny  feet 
that  she  scarce  seemed  to  touch  the  carpet,  her  arm  half 
extended,  and  her  lips  parted,  as  though  in  converse  with 
things  invisible  !  With  a  mother's  inner  sense,  Mary  Ravelin 
discovered  that  her  daughter  was  not  sleeping,  and  left  her 
own  couch  to  hover  near  her.  Drawing  toward  the  door,  she 
lifted  the  latch,  but  paused,  with  suspended  breath,  on  the 
threshold.  Was  that  a  mortal  being,  shrined  so  gloriously,  or 
the  spirit  that  nightly  came  to  guard  her  daughter's  pillow  ? 
The  moonlight  streamed  through  the  open  casement,  and 
gathered  about  her  in  a  flood  of  radiance,  quivering  along  her 
white  robe,  striving  to  rest,  and  yet  tremulous,  as  though 
drunk  with  its  own  glorious  beauty,  or  agitated  by  the  prox- 
imity of  a  yet  more  glorious,  deathless  spirit.  Softly  crept  in 
the  incense-laden  breezes,  dallying  with  the  curls  of  the  child, 
and,  now  and  then,  casting  the  shadow  of  a  lifted  leaf  upon 
her.  Softly  and  dreamily  fell  the  shadows  about  the  aban- 
doned pillow ;  and,  far  off,  in  another  corner  of  the  room,  lay 
heavier,  darker  shadows,  which  Mary  Ravelin  hietv  were 
naturally  produced,  while  yet  she  felt  they  had  a  deeper 
meaning. 

"  There  is  a  glory  about  thee,  my  child,"  she  whispered,  in 
her  throbbing  heart,  "  but  the  world  is  a  dark,  dark  place  for 
such  as  thou.  Oh !  my  God  !  but  for  a  talisman  against  this 


IDA    RAVELIN. 

foreshadowed  misery  ! "  A  sob  of  agony  accompanied  these 
last  words',  which  called  Ida  from  heaven.  She  turned,  and 
sprang  to  the  bosom  of  her  mother. 

"  Oh,  mamma !  I  am  so  glad  you  have  come  !  there  are 
things  I  want  to  say  to  you." 

Mary  lifted  the  beautiful  head  from  her  bosom,  and,  hold- 
ing it  between  her  two  hands,  gazed  long  and  fixedly  into  the 
child's  spiritual  face. 

"  I  will  tell  her  what  she  is,"  she  thought ;  "  how  rarely 
gifted,  how  angelic  in  her  nature.  I  will  tell  her  what  she  is, 
and  warn  her  of  the  future,  I  will  — " 

The  thread  of  thought  was  cut  short  by  remembered  words. 
"  Don't  teach  her  any  of  your  romantic  notions."  Mary 
shuddered,  and  her  eyelids  drooped.  She  could  barely  artic- 
ulate, "  What  is  it,  my  love  ?  " 

Ida  felt  the  chill  that  had  fallen  on  her  mother's  spirit, 
though  she  did  not  know  the  cause ;  and  her  voice  became 
low  and  timid.  The  inspiration  of  a  moment  previous  had 
been  scared  away. 

"  Did  I  ever,  mamma  —  did  I  ever  —  do  —  we  —  come 
from-heaven  to  live  here  awhile,  and  then  go  back  to  heaven 
again  ?  " 

"  Come  from  heaven ! "     Mary  shook  her  head. 

"  Where  then,  mamma  ?  " 

"  Men  spring  from  the  dust  of  the  earth." 

"  The  dust  we  walk  on  ? " 

"  Yes." 

Ida  mused  a  few  moments.  Then,  raising  her  little  hand, 
she  pressed  back  the  blood  till  it  looked  white  and  dead  ;  then 
turned  it  downward,  and  allowed  the  red  current  to  rush  back 
again  ;  and  then  looked  up  into  her  mother's  face,  doubtingly. 
"  It  is  very  strange,  mamma." 

"  Everything  is  strange  in  this  world,  my  darling." 

Ida  was  still  examining  the  little  hand  that  lay  in  her 
mother's.  Finally,  raising  the  other,  she  pressed  it  against 
her  heart.  "  Not  all  of  dust,  mamma ;  what  makes  us 
live?" 


216  IDA    RAVELIN. 

"  God  gives  the  spirit." 

"  Where  does  he  get  it  ?  " 

"From  himself,  from  —  " 

"Then,"  interrupted  the  child,  exultingly,  "it  came  from 
heaven;  it  has  lived  there  with  Him  before,  and  it  was  in 
heaven  I  saw  all  those  beautiful  things!  I  knew  I  had  been 
with  the  angels  —  I  knew  I  had,  mamma!" 

Mary  clasped  the  child  closely  in  her  arms,  and  longed  to 
encourage  her  to  be  still  more  communicative;  but  the 
charge,  "  Don't  teach  her  any  of  your  romantic  notions," 
rang  in  her  ears,  and  she  tried  to  calm  her  emotion,  and  act  as 
her  husband's  superior  judgment  would  have  dictated. 

"  Ida,  my  darling,  listen  to  me."  Mary's  voice  was  low 
and  faltering,  for  she  was  not  used  to  the  cold  part  she  was 
endeavoring  to  act.  "  Listen  to  me,  Ida ;  for  you  are  a  very 
little  girl,  and  must  know  that  your  mamma  understands 
what  is  for  your  good  better  than  you  can.  You  must  never 
have  such  fancies  —  " 

"  How  can  I  help  it  ?  " 

"  You  must  not  lie  awake  thinking  at  night  —  " 

"  How  can  I  help  it,  mamma  ?  " 

"You  must — you  must.  Oh!  my  Ida,  try  to  be  like 
Ruth.  Do  as  she  bids  you.  Play  with  the  children  in  the 
fields—" 

"  The  angels  come  to  me  there,  mamma." 

"  Run  in  the  garden — " 

"  And  there." 

"Play  with  your  dolls — fling  the  shuttlecock — skip  the 
rope — " 

"  Oh !  I  do  all  those  things,  mamma.  I  love  to  play  ;  but  I 
cannot  play  all  the  time — nobody  does  that." 

"  Well,  talk  with  your  papa  and  Ruth — " 

"  Is  it  wrong  to  think,  mamma  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  best  to  think,  unless — " 

Ida  waited  long  for  the  sentence  to  be  finished ;  but  Mary 
knew  how  incompetent  she  was  to  advise,  and  she  scarce 
knew  what  to  say.  The  child  still  gazed  into  her  face,  how- 


IDA   RAVELIN.  217 

ever,  as  though  more  than  life  hung  upon  her  words. 
"  When  you  are  older,  my  Ida,  you  will  know  what  thoughts 
to  indulge,  and  what  to  repress ;  now  strive  to  think  only  of 
the  things  about  you— what  you  see  —  " 

"  What  I  see !  Oh,  I  see  everything  beautiful,  every- 
thing—  " 

"  What  you  hear  talked  of,  I  mean.  Will  you  try,  my 
darling?" 

Ida  looked  bewildered. 

"  But  don't  think  of  it  now.  Now  you  must  sleep,  and 
to-morrow  make  yourself  busy  with  your  play  and  your  les- 
sons. Good-night,  my  love." 

Mary  laid  the  head  of  her  child  upon  the  pillow,  pressed 
kiss  after  kiss  upon  her  lips  and  forehead ;  and,  with  pain  at 
her  heart,  though  fully  believing  that  she  had  acted  wisely, 
went  away  to  her  own  sleepless  couch.  As  soon  as  she 
was  gone,  a  merry,  half-smothered  laugh  burst  from  the 
parted  rose-bud  of  a  mouth  resting  against  the  pillow;  and 
Ida  clapped  her  little  hands  together  and  sprang  out  lightly 
upon  the  carpet. 

".  So  it  was  heaven  that  I  came  from.  I  have  found  it  all 
out  now.  I  am  glad  I  asked  mamma.  But,"  and  Ida's  lips 
drooped  at  the  corners,  "  I  must  n't  ask  her  anything  more. 
I  wonder  if  I  was  an  angel  and  had  wings  up  there,  and  if 
the  things  I  see  now — I  wonder — but  mamma  said  I 
mustn't  think  of  these  things.  Why  must  n't  I  think  ?  How 
can  I  help  thinking  ?  " 

Ida  pressed  her  hand  successively  on  her  forehead  and 
against  her  heart;  as  though  feeling  after  some  secret  spring, 
by  the  moving  of  which  she  might  lock  away  that  flood 
of  thought.  "  How  can  I  help  thinking  ? "  she  repeated. 
"  When  I  am  a  woman  maybe  I  can,  but  now  the  thoughts 
will  come." 

Ah,  Ida !  if  the  little  germ  fill  the  heart  of  childhood  with 
its  first  swelling,  what  will  it  be,  in  flowering  and  fruit-bear- 
ing, to  the  nature  which  cherished  it  ? 

"When  I   am  a   woman — but — why  shouldn't  I   think 

VOL.  II.  19 


218  IDA    RAVELIN. 

now?  Is  it  wrong  to  think?  Perhaps  I  am  very  foolish  — 
perhaps  I  don't —  "  Ida's  face  flushed ;  she  stood  for  a  moment 
as  though  perplexed,  stunned,  and  then  crouched  by  the  bod- 
side  and  buried  her  face  in  the  drapery.  For  a  long  time 
she  remained  motionless;  and  if  not  sleeping,  she  must  have 
been  in  thought,  intense,  perhaps  painful  thought,  for  mem- 
ory is  a  traitor  if  it  deny  depth  and  intensity  to  the  mental 
emotions  of  our  childhood.  At  last  she  arose  slowly,  and 
with  an  expression  of  sadness  which  had  never  before  over- 
shadowed her  young  face. 

"Unlike  others!"  she  murmured.  "I  see  it  all  now — it 
must  be  so.  That  is  why  they  watch  me  so  closely — they 
are  afraid  to  leave  me  alone.  That  is  why  I  must  look  at 
other  people,  and  try  to  think  as  they  talk.  This  is  why 
everybody  is  so  kind  to  me,  and  all  that  look  at  me  seem  to 
say,  poor  Ida! — they  are  just  so  to  her.  That  is  why 
mamma  looks  at  me  so  sorrowfully,  and  the  tears  come  into 
her  eyes,  and  she  breathes  so  hard,  as  though  there  was 
something  strange  about  me,  and  she  had  strange  thoughts 
she  was  shutting  in.  Now  I  know  why  she  always  said  I 
was  unlike  other  children,  and  why  she  seems  to  love  me  so 
much  better  than  she  does  Phil.  I  wonder  if  Phil  knows  it  ? 
— he  must — oh,  yes!  he  knows  all  about  her.  But  she 
can't  talk,  and  I  can — that  is,  I  think  I  can.  Maybe  I  don't 
speak  the  words  ;  —  she  makes  a  sound,  and  I  suppose  she  calls 
that  talking  ; — they  seem  to  understand  her,  too,  and  sometimes 
people  look  at  me  as  though  they  didn't  understand  me. 
Nobody  seems  very  well  to  understand  me  but  mother  and 
Phil,  and  Phil  not  always.  Oh,  yes!  I  know  it  all  now  — 
all — all — all !  I  am  like  poor  Cicely  Doane .'" 

Cicely  Doane  was  an  idiot ! 

Poor  Ida's  unemployed  imagination  had  at  last  conjured 
up  a  phantom  which  it  might  be  difficult  to  lay.  Was  it 
strange  that  she  should  ?  Why,  the  child  had  suddenly  become 
a  philosopher ;  and  might,  by  a  very  simple  process  of  induc- 
tive reasoning,  arrive  at  the  grand  theory  of  Hume  himself. 
She  was  only  a  little  more  modest  than  he  —  she  denied  simply 


IDA    RAVELIN.  219 

the  existence  of  her  own  mind ;  he,  of  everybody's.  So  a  fal- 
lacy on  which  a  mighty  philosopher  could  waste  years  of 
time,  a  child  of  a  few  summers  fished  up  from  her  fancy,  just 
between  dreams  on  a  moonlit  night.  And  the  child  would 
be  laughed  at  had  she  ventured  to  name  her  folly,  while  the 
man  is  followed  by  crowds  of  admiring  disciples.  So  much 
for  the  boasted  wisdom  of  sages,  and  the  gullibility  of  their 
followers  !  But  there  was  a  difference.  The  child  unfortu- 
nately believed  her  theory,  and  acted  on  it ;  the  philosopher 
treated  his  as  a  brave  man  does  the  optical  illusion  which 
others  might  deern  a  supernatural  visiter,  walking  through  it. 
From  that  night  a  change  came  over  little  Ida  Eavelin. 
If  she  commenced  speaking,  she  stopped  in  the  middle  of  a 
sentence  to  wonder  if  she  were  understood.  When  with 
other  children,  she  looked  on  their  amusements  with  interest, 
but  never  ventured  to  join  them,  for  she  was  sure  that  they 
invited  her  only  from  pity.  A  touchingly  sorrowful  expres- 
sion, mingled  with  traces  of  premature  thought,  crept  over  her 
face ;  and  while  she  was  as  much  in  love  with  life  and  the 
things  of  life  as  ever,  she  moved  about  as  a  mere  spectator. 
Thomas  Ravelin  thought  the  child  improving  wonderfully, 
Ruth  joyed  in  the  fruit  of  her  somewhat  laborious  instruc- 
tions, and  even  Mary  regarded  the  timid,  quiet  child  with 
something  like  a  feeling  of  relief.  Little  did  any  one  dream 
of  the  silent  influence  that  was  remoulding  a  nature  which 
God  had  fitted  for  high  and  noble  purposes.  To  do  as 
others  did,  became  little  Ida's  constant  study.  But  still  her 
mind  was  not  an  imitator ;  it  refused  to  learn  the  lesson. 
She  observed,  and  formed  an  independent  opinion  on  every 
subject,  but  never  dared  express  it ;  and  when  a  different  one 
was  given,  she  relinquished  her  own,  certain  that  it  must  be 
wrong.  She  still  felt,  too,  with  as  much  freedom  as  ever. 
She  loved  and  hated,  hoped  and  desponded,  but  it  seemed  to 

Sher  that  she  scarce  had  a  right  to  feel ;  and  so  everything  was 
shut  closely  within  her  own  bosom.  Little  Ida's  cheek 
began  to  lose  its  roundness,  and  her  eye  its  rare  brilliancy ; 
for  the  actual  was  receding  from  her,  and  she  lived  only  in 


220  IDA    RAVELIN. 

the  ideal.  A  little  world  was  built  up  within  her  bosom,  a 
dear,  charming,  life-like  world,  peopled  not  with  fairies  and 
woodland  deities,  but  with  real  flesh  and  blood  beings,  with 
whom  the  child  held  converse  every  day,  when  she  shrank 
from  the  sight  of  her  sister's  visiters,  with  the  firm  belief  that 
she,  poor  trembler,  was  a  companion  too  humble  for  them. 

"  I  am  unlike  them — all  unlike  them,"  would  Ida  whisper 
sadly  to  herself;  and  then  she  would  smile  and  turn  to  her 
imaginary  world,  from  which  nothing  that  belongs  to  human 
nature  was  excluded,  save  the  bad  —  turn  to  that  and  enact 
the  queen  for  which  she  was  intended  originally.  So  Ida's 
mind  did  not  feed  upon  itself,  but  grew  and  expanded ;  grew 
wise  and  lofty,  yet  not  too  much  etherealized  for  the  world 
that  lay  before  her,  while  she  shrank  from  contact  with  that 
world,  with  a  sensitiveness  utterly  incomprehensible  to  those 
who  could  not  take  a  peep  behind  the  veil.  And  there  the 
child  stood  on  the  threshold  of  life,  rare,  glorious  in  her  spirit's 
beauty,  but,  alas  !  crippled  in  every  limb.  So  much  for  trying 
to  amend  what  God  has  made  perfect,  oh  ye  quacks  of  the 
human  soul ! 

The  windows  had  been  thrown  up,  and  the  heavy  curtains 
looped  far  back  to  allow  free  entrance  to  the  fresh,  fragrant 
breezes ;  for  breath,  breath  was  sorely  needed  in  that  house 
of  the  dying.  The  trembling  soul  still  clung  to  its  earthly 
altar,  fanned  in  the  moment  of  its  fainting  by  the  clear  summer 
air,  which  swept  up  from  its  dalliance  with  the  budding  things 
of  June,  to  linger  on  the  lip  and  give  another  swell  to  the 
heart  which  had  once  gloried  in  its  joyous  ministrations. 
Mary  Ravelin,  like  some  superb  flower  broken  from  its  stem, 
lay  withering  in  her  fully  expanded  beauty.  Her  eye  still 
flashed  and  burned  with  supernatural  brilliancy,  fully  matched 
by  the  deep  crimson  of  her  cheek  and  lips ;  but  the  hands, 
which  were  folded  over  the  heaving  bosom,  were  long  and 
thin,  and  tipped  with  the  ice  of  death.  Across  her  forehead, 
too,  wandered  little  violet  threads,  now  taking  on  a  dark,  un- 
natural purple,  and  contrasting  fearfully  with  the  deep  palor 


IDA    RAVELIN.  221 

of  their  resting-place.  Her  hair  had  broken  from  the  con- 
finement of  the  cap,  and  lay  in  rich  shining  folds  of  raven 
blackness  about  her  neck  and  shoulders  ;  conspiring  with  the 
crimson  cheek  and  dazzling  eye  to  give  an  intensity,  a  proud 
queenliness  to  her  beauty,  in  strange  contrast  with  the  certainty 
of  immediate  dissolution.  Around  her  gathered  a  group  of 
weeping  mourners ;  but  little  Ida  was  not  with  them.  From 
time  to  time,  at  the  rustle  of  a  curtain,  or  some  slight  noise 
from  without,  the  eye  of  the  dying  woman  would  turn  itself 
on  the  door,  and  then  the  breath,  which  struggled  up  with  so 
much  difficulty  from  its  fast  benumbing  fountain,  would  falter 
and  quiver  in  agitation.  At  last,  a  light,  springing  step  was 
heard,  in  the  adjoining  apartment,  and  gently,  but  eagerly, 
the  latch  was  raised. 

"  My  Ida  ! "  whispered  the  dying  mother. 

Ida  had  filled  her  apron  with  flowers,  and  gathered  up  the 
corners  in  her  hand;  the  dew-spangled  buds  peeping  out 
in  every  direction,  eloquent  in  their  young  brightness,  but 
strangely  eloquent  at  an  hour  so  fraught  with  the  deep  solem- 
nities of  death.  The  light  of  love  was  beaming  in  her  eye, 
and  her  thin,  childish  face  glowed  with  exercise.  Beautiful 
was  the  child  —  though  not  so  beautiful  as  when  we  first  knew 
her — beautiful  was  she,  as,  with  the  eagerness  of  a  loving 
heart,  her  bright  head  peered  through  the  opening  of  the  door, 
and  her  sweet,  dove-like  eyes  sought  the  couch  of  her  mother. 
But  the  solemnity  of  the  scene  startled  her ;  and  she  stood 
thus  lightly  poised,  on  the  threshold,  her  lips  parted,  and  her 
eyes  full  of  eloquent  wonder.  A  woman  left  the  bedside,  and 
taking  the  child  by  the  hand,  beckoned  her  to  throw  aside  the 
useless  flowers. 

"  Nay,  bring  them  to  me,"  said  a  low,  feeble  voice  from  the 
pillow. 

Ida  dropped  the  hand  of  her  conductor,  and  sprung  to  the 
bosom  of  her  mother,  scattering  the  flowers  as  she  went,  and 
crushing  them  beneath  her  little  feet,  till  the  apartment  was 
filled  with  their  perfume.  One  hand  of  the  dying  woman 
closed  about  an  opening  rose-bud,  as  though  the  death-stricken 

VOL.  n.  19* 


222  IDA    RAVELIN. 

fingers  knew  so  well  these  beautiful  treasures,  loved  of  yore, 
as  to  select  by  instinct  the  fairest  among  them  ;  and  the  other 
arm  was  twined  lovingly  about  her  own  bud  of  immortality 
— the  strangely  gentle  being  who,  year  by  year,  had  grown 
closely  to  her  impassioned  heart. 

What  she  said  no  one  could  hear,  for  the  words  seemed  to 
be  pronounced  rather  by  her  struggling  heart  than  by  her  lips, 
so  faintly  and  falteringly  they  fell;  but  Ida  heard  every  one  ; 
and,  as  she  listened,  instead  of  the  sorrow  which  was  deluging 
other  faces,  a  strange,  joyous  light  beamed  in  her  eyes  and 
played  about  her  mouth. 

"  I  know  it,  my  mother,  I  know  it,"  at  last  she  said,  eagerly, 
"  but  no  one  ever  told  me  before." 

"  Then  tread  the  earth  carefully,  my  darling,"  whispered 
the  dying  mother ;  "  love  the  beautiful  things  which  God  has 
made  —  love  the  beings  he  has  given  you  for  companionship; 
but,  Ida,  Ida,  shut  that  rich  heart  from  every  eye.  Give  all  its 
wealth  to  Heaven — the  reeds  which  it  would  rest  upon  here 
will  sway  and  bend  beneath  it — there  is  no  support  for  a 
strong,  high  spirit  here.  Keep  thy  treasure  close,  my  darling, 
and  thou  wilt  be  happy ;  but  once — " 

The  breath  came  gaspingly,  and  there  was  a  short,  severe 
struggle.  An  attendant  interposed,  and  endeavored  to  remove 
the  child,  but  the  arm  of  the  dying  woman  was  too  firmly 
about  her. 

"  Do  not  let  the  world  know  the  riches  shut  in  thy  bosom, 
Ida — they  would  be  desecrated,  stained — keep  them  for  thine 
own  self  and  the  angels." 

Mary  Ravelin  drew  the  lips  of  the  child  to  her?,  pressed 
them  fondly  again  and  again,  but  each  time  more  feebly,  till 
finally  there  came  one  long,  loving  pressure,  as  though  the 
icy  lips  would  grow  to  the  warm  living  ones,  and  all  was  still ! 
Upon  the  bosom  of  the  dead  lay  the  fair  child,  her  bright 
locks  mingling  with  the  shining  black,  one  hand  pressing  the 
livid  cheek,  and  the  other  lying,  the  fairest  flower  of  them  all, 
among  the  fresh  roses  yet  sparkling  with  dew  :  there  she  lay 
in  her  young  beauty,  without  a  tear  or  sigh,  but  yet  the  sin- 


IDA    RAVELIN.  223 

cerest  of  mourners.  At  first  she  would  not  be  separated  from 
the  loved  clay ;  but  when  they  told  her  that  her  mother  was 
dead,  and  she  looked  into  the  glazed  eyes,  and  placed  her 
hand  upon  the  hushed  heart,  and  knew  that  it  was  so,  she 
suffered  herself  to  be  led  quietly  and  uncomplainingly  away. 

All  that  day  Ida  sat  beneath  the  little  clump  of  locust  trees 
in  the  garden,  and  watched  the  window  from  which  her 
mother  had  so  often  looked ;  while  thoughts,  such  as  seldom 
find  their  origin  in  the  bosom  of  a  child,  crowded  upon  her, 
and  left  an  impress  upon  her  sweet,  sad  face.  A  change  had 
come  over  Ida  Ravelin  since  the  night  of  the  first  strange  fan- 
tasy which  had  sealed  up  the  door  of  her  spirit  against  com- 
munion with  her  kind.  The  timidity  which  characterized 
her  during  that  year  had  remained  and  strengthened,  but  the 
self-distrust  had  vanished.  She  knew  there  was  that  within 
her  bosom  which  those  about  her  could  not  even  comprehend ; 
she  knew  of  a  deep  mine  of  more  than  earthly  wisdom,  in 
which  she  daily  revelled,  and  the  existence  of  which  no  one 
imagined ;  but  yet  she  believed  herself  as  much  unfitted  for 
companionship  with  others  as  though  she  had  been  the  idiot 
which  she  once  imagined. 

"  I  lack  something,"  she  would  say  to  herself.  "  I  am  not 
like  them ;  they  never  speak  of  the  things  I  think  about,  and 
they  find  no  pleasure  in  my  words.  I  am  not  like  them ;  they 
cannot  be  interested  in  me ;  and  so  I  will  give  my  love  to  the 
birds  and  violets." 

Notwithstanding  this  feeling,  none  was  more  truly  loved 
than  Ida  Ravelin — not  by  strangers,  for  her  serious,  thought- 
ful eyes,  and  full,  intellectual  forehead,  had  too  little  of  the 
child  about  them  for  her  years — but  those  who  saw  her  daily, 
and  penetrated  beneath  the  covering  of  mingled  timidity  and 
self-consciousness  in  which  she  had  enveloped  herself,  saw 
the  joyous  spirit,  the  simple,  artless  grace  that  fashioned  all 
within,  and  loved  her.  But  even  they,  her  constant  compan- 
ions, did  not  see  all.  Sweetness,  and  love,  and  truth,  were 
the  qualities  which  attracted  them ;  they  did  not  see  into  the 
depths  of  mind  and  heart  —  the  intellect  and  the  affections 


224  IDA    EAVELIW. 

braided  closely  together,  and  growing  up  in  rich  luxuriance, 
budding  and  blossoming  for  the  eyes  of  angels  only.  The 
only  expression  which  Ida  Ravelin  had  ever  given  to  the 
inspiration  lighting  up  the  inner  chamber  of  her  soul  was  in 
song.  And,  but  for  these  revealings,  even  the  watchful,  anx- 
ious mother  might  have  been  deceived;  there  was  so  little 
without  to  give  a  clue  to  the  contents  of  the  casket.  Yet, 
strange  to  say,  through  all  this  Ida  had  preserved  all  her 
world-lovingness,  her  ready  sympathy  with  whatever  inter- 
ested her  friends ;  and,  on  all  occasions,  she  evinced  a 
capability  of  judging,  and  a  sober  common  sense,  seldom 
possessed  in  connection  with  a  rich  fancy  and  ardent  imagina- 
tion. So  had  Ida  grown  and  expanded,  though  crippled  still, 
until  she  reached  her  thirteenth  summer ;  and  now  another 
change  had  come  over  her  fortunes — a  dark,  dark  change 
for  the  eyes  that  had  watched  over  her  timidly  and  with 
trembling,  but,  oh,  so  lovingly !  had  lost  their  light,  and  the 
bosom  which  had  pillowed  her  head  when  thought  had  made 
it  ache,  could  never  be  her  pillow  again.  Cold,  cold  was  it, 
and  hushed  the  heart  which  had  beat  in  concert  with  her  own, 
answering  every  throb  with  a  throb  still  wilder,  even  while 
the  lips  were  striving  to  belie  its  earnestness.  Ida  had  been 
taught  of  the  heart,  not  the  lips,  and  now  was  she  all  alone  ; 
orphaned  in  a  world  to  which  she  was  a  stranger,  doubly 
orphaned  in  spirit. 

All  was  still  in  the  house  of  death.  The  mourners  had 
gone  to  their  pillows,  perhaps  with  the  abandon  of  real  grief, 
to  add  the  awe  of  darkness  and  the  solemnity  of  loneliness  to 
their  already  weighty  sorrows ;  perhaps  to  rest  their  fatigued 
senses,  but  not  their  aching  hearts,  in  a  sleep  haunted  by 
dreams  scarce  less  fearful  than  the  waking  reality.  Two  old 
women  sat  beside  the  vines  which  shaded  the  open  window, 
talking  in  broken  whispers,  the  meaning  of  which  was  eked 
out  by  mysterious  nods,  and  involuntarily  drawing  nearer 
each  other,  as  the  shadows  of  the  leaves  commenced  a  fresh 
frolic  with  the  moonbeams  which  peered  through  them,  paint- 
ing fantastic  figures  on  the  ceiling  and  carpet. 


IDA    RAVELIN.  225 

"  She  has  not  been  a  happy  woman,"  whispered  one ;  and 
then  she  gave  two  distinct  nods,  and  tucked  a  grey  lock  be- 
neath her  cap,  and  passed  her  fingers  across  her  keen  old 
eyes,  which  glittered  with  an  intenser  light  than  the  moon 
itself.  The  other  shook  her  head  and  sighed,  and  thanked 
Heaven  that  she  was  not  in  the  place  of  some  hard,  stern  peo- 
ple whom  she  might  name ;  though,  to  be  sure,  Mary  Rave- 
lin had  not  been  just  like  other  women — the  Lord  forgive 
her  for  speaking  such  words  of  the  dead,  for  she  was  sure  she 
had  always  wished  the  poor  creature  well. 

"  Hark  ! "  and  both  old  women  put  their  fingers  to  their 
lips,  and  drew  themselves  upright  with  a  shiver  ;  for  the  clock 
was  on  the  stroke  of  twelve,  and  mingling  with  its  tone  was 
another  sound.  The  clock  ceased,  but  the  other  noise  con- 
tinued. There  was  a  click,  like  the  lifting  of  a  latch ;  and 
then  a  foot-fall,  which  struck  the  frightened  watchers  as  sin- 
gularly heavy,  in  the  apartment  of  the  dead.  They  both 
started  to  their  feet,  and  seized  a  light  in  either  hand,  and 
hurried  to  the  door ;  and  both  paused,  looked  into  each  oth- 
er's faces,  and  went  back  again.  A  low,  soft  murmur,  as  of 
a  pleading  human  voice,  pressed  down  by  a  heavy  weight  of 
tears,  stole  up  from  the  room  where  lay  the  shrouded  corse, 
and  mingled  with  the  rustling  of  the  leaves  and  the  beating 
of  their  own  hearts,  overshadowing  them  with  awe,  till  their 
limbs  refused  to  support  them,  and  their  white  lips  strove  in 
vain  to  pronounce  the  words  of  fear  which  struggled  for 
utterance. 

Slowly  moved  the  fingers  of  the  clock — so  slowly  that  it 
seemed  Time  himself  had  made  a  pause  in  fear ;  and  five 
minutes  passed  like  a  weary  period  in  a  night-mare  dream. 
Five  minutes  more  crept  by — how,  the  frightened  women  could 
not  say — but  it  was  gone  at  length ;  and  then  the  voice 
ceased,  and  a  low,  soft  breathing,  though  they  imagined  it 
singularly  heavy  and  sob-like  in  their  night-time  fear,  took  its 
place,  and  filled  them  still  with  terror.  A  half  hour  had 
passed  since  the  striking  of  the  clock ;  and  now  that  nothing 
but  the  monotonous  breathing  had  been  for  a  long  time  heard, 
the  old  women  gathered  courage,  and  again  proposed  looking 


226  IDA    UAVELIN. 

into  the  dreaded  apartment.  They  moved  timidly,  and  opened 
the  door  with  the  utmost  caution.  At  first,  they  started  back 
in  alarm ;  but  then  they  looked  at  each  other,  and  one  tried 
to  smile,  while  a  tear  crept  into  the  cold,  age-deadened  eye  of 
the  other,  and  fell  sparkling  to  her  withered  hand.  The  dead 
had  found  loving  company.  The  cloth  had  been  laid  back 
from  the  face  of  the  corse,  and  close  beside  it  knelt  a  fair 
young  girl,  her  two  hands  clasped  over  the  rigid  neck,  and 
her  head  resting  on  the  cold,  nerveless  bosom.  A  ray  of 
moonlight  peering  through  a  crevice  in  the  closed  curtains, 
glanced  from  her  hair  to  the  shoulder  of  her  white  night- 
dress ;  and  then,  breaking  and  scattering  itself,  was  spread 
over  her  like  an  angel's  wing,  or  the  visible  promise  of  the 
protection  given  by  the  redeemed  spirit  to  the  child  of  her 
almost  idolatry.  Lightly  and  reverently  crept  the  two  old 
women  to  the  spot.  One  of  them  stepped  back  and  closed 
the  curtain,  as  though  the  vision  were  too  heavenly  in  its  rare 
beauty  for  earthly  eyes  to  look  upon ;  but  the  other  opened  it 
again,  and  the  moonlight  rushed  in  gladly,  enveloping  the 
sleeping  child  in  a  yet  more  glorious  radiance. 

"  We  must  take  her  away,"  said  one,  in  a  whisper ;  "  it  is 
a  dreadful  place  to  sleep  in  —  ugh  ! "  and  a  shiver  passed  over 
the  old  woman  as  she  spoke. 

"  No,  no ;  she  has  chosen  her  own  pillow,"  said  her  com- 
panion, tenderly.  "  Poor  child !  I  dare  say  she  will  miss  it 
many  a  time.  Well,  God  help  her !  If  Mary  Ravelin  was 
not  the  best  of  wives  —  and  I  would  never  say  but  she  was  — 
no,  no ;  she  was  a  devoted  mother.  Poor  Ida  sleeps  soundly 
—  and  for  the  last  time  in  such  a  place.  We  will  not  disturb 
her." 

Almost  tearfully,  moved  the  two  old  women  from  the  sa- 
cred spot,  and  closed  the  door  with  care,  and  left  the  child  to 
her  holy  dreams. 

"  But  for  one  word — one  word  more  ! "  sobbed  Ida  Ravelin, 
as  she  laid  her  head  so  low  within  the  opened  coffin  that  her 
brown  locks  rested  in  glossy  waves  upon  the  pall.  "  Oh  ! 


IDA    RAVELIN.  ^  227 

to  be  assured  that  she  will  still  watch  by  me !  My  angel 
mother ! " 

But  neither  the  anguish  of  the  child,  nor  the  warm  pressure 
of  the  lips,  nor  the  tears  that  jewelled  over  the  midnight-col- 
ored hair,  and  wetted  the  white  muslin  pillow,  could  win  one 
answering  sigh  from  that  cold  bosom. 

They  took  the  child  from  her  slumbering  parent,  and  closed 
the  coffin,  and  lowered  it  into  the  earth,  and  placed  green  sods 
upon  the  little  mound  they  raised,  and  went  away  —  some  to 
mourn,  others  to  forget. 

Night  followed  the  going  down  of  the  sun,  and  the  morning 
came  and  went  —  the  Sabbath  dawned  and  waned,  and  gayer 
days  rolled  into  its  place  —  soon  months  were  numbered. 
The  golden  sheaves  stood  up  in  the  fields,  and  the  white 
clover-blossoms  and  nodding  grass-heads,  yielding  to  the  scythe 
of  the  mower,  changed  their  color,  and  gave  out  a  dying 
fragrance.  Then  the  apple-boughs  were  heavily  laden  with 
fruit  of  various  hues;  the  purple  plum,  for  very  ripeness, 
dropped  down  at  every  touch  of  the  wind,  and  nestled  in  the 
fading  grass ;  and  the  peach  peeped  from  among  the  sheltering 
green,  with  a  radiant  blush  on  one  warm  cheek,  while  on  the 
other  was  a  hue  more  lusciously  tempting  still  —  the  rich, 
soft,  golden  tint  which  seemed  melting  into  the  yellow  sun- 
light of  a  Septemoer  sky.  Then  the  trees  put  on  their  holy- 
day  suit  of  gold  and  scarlet,  flaunting  proudly  in  their 
gorgeousness ;  the  orchis  and  the  aster  bloomed  beneath  the 
night-frosts  in  the  garden ;  the  blood-hued  lobelia  looked  at 
its  face  in  the  sparkling,  babbling,  tripping  brooks ;  the  violets 
awoke  from  their  August  slumbers,  thousands  of  purple  eyes 
looking  up  lovingly  from  deserted  garden-plots  ;  and  the  year 
became  gay,  gayer  than  in  its  childhood.  The  gala-day  went 
by,  and  the  trees  put  on  their  russet ;  long  spires  of  pallid 
grass  waved  to  and  fro  wearily ;  the  wind  awoke  with  a  shiver, 
and  marked  its  course  with  sobs  and  wailings;  the  brooks 
grew  bluer  and  chiller ;  and  the  cold  white  clouds  trooped  off 
through  fields  of  pure  cerulean,  obeying  every  impulse  of  the 


228  „  IDA   BAVEL1N. 

ice-winged  lord  of  the  storm.  Another  change  —  and  me 
bare  trees  were  wreathed  in  white  ;  the  brooks  lost  their  sil- 
very voices,  or  struggled  on  with  a  death-like  gurgle,  amid 
barriers  of  choking  ice ;  the  wind  swept  freely  and  roughly 
over  mountain  and  meadow,  yet  on  wings  of  melting  fleeci- 
ness ;  and  the  grave  of  Mary  Ravelin,  lost  beneath  the  deep 
snow  of  winter,  was  well  nigh  forgotten  by  all  but  the  child- 
mourner.  She  kept  a  path  well  trodden,  and  her  pale,  thin 
face  often  bent  over  it  tearfully ;  for  though  the  momentary 
doubt  had  passed,  and  she  knew  that  the  spirit  of  her  lost 
mother  was  still  by  her,  still  hovered  over  her  in  the  night- 
time, and  watched  her  every  step  in  the  sunlight,  the  death 
mark  had  been  drawn  between  them.  A  deep  gulf,  with  a 
grave  at  the  bottom,  must  be  passed  before  the  two  could 
unite  as  formerly ;  and  Ida,  notwithstanding  her  angel  guar- 
dian, was  in  the  world  all  alone.  But  it  was  not  always  to 
be  thus.  There  was  a  change  coming,  and  soon  Ida's  dark, 
thoughtful  eyes  grew  lustrous  with  a  strange  kind  of  happi- 
ness ;  and  she  went  about  as  one  in  a  dream,  a  blissful,  soul- 
fraught  dream,  for  she  had  found  a  friend.  By  the  time  the 
spring  violets  began  to  shake  off  their  winter  slumbers,  and 
open  their  bright  eyes  to  the  wooing  breezes,  the  world  was 
ringing  with  the  praise  of  a  poet  who  might  have  been  dropped 
down  from  the  clouds,  so  full  was  he  of  the  inspiration  of 
Heaven.  But  long  before  this  had  Ida  Ravelin  known  the 
new  minstrel  well.  A  scrap  of  paper  had  fluttered  in  her 
path  one  day  when  the  wintry  winds  were  blowing  keenly, 
and,  as  she  glanced  it  over,  her  eye  fell  on  familiar  thoughts. 
Ida  tried  to  brush  the  mist  from  her  eyes,  for  she  believed 
that  she  saw  indistinctly;  but  still  it  was  the  same  —  her 
own  thoughts,  her  secret  heart-thoughts,  that  she  never  re- 
vealed to  mortal  —  the  riches  of  her  own  bosom,  which  she 
had  hugged  to  herself  more  closely  since  her  mother's  dying 
caution  —  spread  out  upon  a  paper,  in  irrevocable  print !  And 
yet  she  knew  well  that  she  had  never  placed  them  there. 
What  listening  spirit,  what  winged  thing  hover  ing  near,  had 
stolen  this  honey  from  its  secret  lurking-plarc  in  the  deepest 


IDA   RAVELIN.  229 

recess  of  the  soul-gifted  flower,  for  a  careless  world  to  feast 
upon  ?  Ah,  Ida !  there  are  other  spirits  than  thine  roam- 
ing' the  earth  in  loneliness  ;  genius  often  has  its  twin.  The 
child  believed  her  thoughts  had  been  stolen ;  but  the  breath- 
ing language,  the  harp-like  measure,  she  disclaimed.  These 
were  not  her  own ;  and  these  betrayed  not  only  the  inspira- 
tion of  the  genius,  but  the  skill  of  the  artist.  Ida  stood,  with 
her  dark  spiritual  eyes  fixed  on  vacancy,  as  though  reading 
earnestly  from  a  page  invisible  to  others ;  then  a  smile,  a  glad, 
glowing,  beautiful  smile  broke  from  her  lips,  and  lighted  up 
her  pale,  sweet  face.  Ida  was  no  longer  alone  in  the  world  ; 
she  had  found  a  friend.  And  here  the  finger  of  Fate  was 
irust  forward,  and  some  wheels  were  stopped,  and  new  ones 
)ut  in  motion ;  for  the  strange  machinery  employed  in  weav- 
ing the  destiny  of  Ida  Ravelin,  grew  more  complicated.  The 
lild  did  not  pause  to  reason ;  but  one  thing  she  knew  from 
the  day  when  she  found  the  scrap  of  paper  by  the  wayside. 
Her  spirit,  which  could  not  be  entirely  prisoned  in  the  little 
body  that  claimed  it  for  a  season,  was  not  condemned  to  wing 
its  way  up  and  down  the  blossoming  earth  alone.  For  weal 
or  -woe — and  Ida  could  not  think  of  woe  in  that  connection 
— she  had  found  a  companion. 

Spring  came.  Life  began  to  swell  and  breathe  in  the 
bosoms  of  the  flower-buds,  till  it  seemed  as  though  each  had 
in  it  a  living  soul,  as  full  of  energy  and  world-lovingness  as 
Ida's  own ;  the  brooks  leaped  and  sparkled,  an  Undine  laugh- 
ing from  the  heart  of  every  bubble  ;  and  the  winds  murmured 
their  spirit-music  among  the  old  trees,  and  then  swept  down- 
ward from  their  high-communion,  and  stooped  to  kiss  the  fore- 
head of  the  child.  Everywhere,  everywhere,  save  in  the 
world  of  living  men,  she  found  companions  as  full  of  life  and 
joy  as  was  her  own  fluttering  heart.  And  oh,  how  that  heart 
fluttered,  as  the  young  girl  stood  thus  on  the  border  of  woman- 
hood !  Far  before,  her  poetic  imagination  spread  the  broad 
fields  of  life;  far  out  in  ether  gleamed  stars  innumerable, 
which  were  to  be  her  way-marks  to  immortality  ;  and  beside 

VOL.  ii.  20 


230  IDA    RAVELIN. 

her  walked  her  guide,  her  inspiration,  her  sacred  spirit-friend  ; 
in  the  guise  of  an  angel,  trod  he  by  her  side,  invisible  to  all 
but  her.  Glad  Ida  !  Enviable  Ida  !  Thy  rainbow  was  set 
in  tears,  true  ;  but  it  was  as  a  triumphal  arch  thrown  over  tne 
gateway  through  which  thy  Destiny  was  leading  thee  up  to  a 
broader  view  of  life.  And  the  child  walked  on  humbly  and 
lovingly,  yet  without  a  fear ;  stepping  carefully  the  while  lest 
her  foot  should  crush  the  little  violet  or  the  dew-flower,  and 
kneeling  as  she  went,  to  mark  even  the  texture  of  the  jewelled 
gossamer  which  nimble  fingers  had  spread  from  green  to  green 
in  the  spirit-freighted  night-time.  Loved  and  loving,  but  all 
unknown,  stepped  Ida  Ravelin  beneath  her  rainbow  arch,  and 
looked  with  a  startled  gaze  out  on  the  strange  world  in  which 
she  was  a  stranger.  Warm  breezes  came  wooingly,  and  kissed 
her  cheek,  and  laid  their  soft  fingers  on  her  forehead,  and  left 
a  touch  of  balm  upon  her  ripe  lips  ;  the  golden  sunshine  glowed 
in  her  path,  or  coquetted  with  cool,  fresh  shadows  which  invited  . 
to  dreamy  repose  by  the  wayside ;  a  thousand  glad  voices 
greeted  her  from  shrub  and  tree ;  flowers  blossomed,  wings 
glanced,  waters  sparkled,  and  the  heart  of  Ida  Ravelin  fluttered 
in  its  cage  like  an  imprisoned  bird.  But  the  cage  was  strong, 
and  it  could  not  free  itself  with  all  its  flutterings.  The  wires  * 
had  been  woven  over  it,  when  it  had  no  wing  to- raise  in  oppo- 
sition, and  now  it  commanded  no  resources  powerful  enough 
to  undo  the  elaborate  fastenings.  It  had  been  locked  from 
without,  and  from  without  must  the  relief  come.  So  Ida  was 
still  a  stranger  to  those  who  loved  her;  for  she  was  loved 
deeply,  and  with  a  reverential  tenderness,  inspired  by  her 
singular  purity  and  guilelessness.  So  delicate  and  helpless, 
too,  seemed  Ida,  that  every  arm  coming  within  the  charmed 
circle  about  her,  involuntarily  extended  itself  for  her  support: 
but  she  needed  them  not,  for  in  her  helplessness  she  v^r 
strong — in  her  lack  of  worldliness  she  was  wiser  than  any 
worldling.  Still  there  was  a  sadness  in  the  strange,  prophet- 
like  eyes  of  Ida  Ravelin,  that  seemed  scarce  to  belong  to  one 
so  young;  a  sadness  which  had  stolen  up  from  the  grave 
where  some  of  their  tears  had  fallen ;  and  though  her  heart 


IDA    RAVELIN.  231 

was  now  as  joyous  as  the  young  bird  that  waved  its  wing, 
and  wheeled  and  carolled  in  the  sunlight,  the  shadow  would 
not  go  away  from  her  face. 

So,  many  there  were  who  wondered  at  the  young  girl's 
seriousness,  and  thought,  as  they  looked  upon  her,  how  strange 
a  thing  it  was  that  any  blighting  influence  should  have  fallen 
upon  so  young  a  nature — and  then  turned  away  and  forgot 
her  existence.  Ida  was  quiet  and  unpretending,  to$  simple 
and  timid  to  live  long  in  the  memory  of  a  stranger.  Others 
gave  a  second  look,  and  these  always  found  something  to 
interest  them ;  but  it  was  only  those  who  won  her  confidence, 
and  who  appeared  as  guileless  as  herself,  that  were  entrusted 
with  even  the  first  key  to  her  nature.  These  were  often  star- 
tled by  the  stirrings  of  the  free,  gladsome  spirit  shut  within, 
and  could  scarce  think  the  occasional  gush  of  mirth&ilness, 
which  seemed  to  have  its  source  in  an  overflowing  fountain 
down  deep  in  her  nature,  could  be  real.  But  who  should  be 
glad,  if  the  pure  are  not  ?  Who  should  be  happier  than  the 
gifted,  holding  as  they  do  the  key  to  the  bright  world,  and 
bearing  a  second  treasure  within  their  own  bosoms  ?  The 
God-gifted,  led  by  the  hand  and  guided  and  cherished  by 
Eternal  Love,  so  like  the  angels  as  to  be  counted  one  of  them 
even  while  lingering  here,  throwing  their  warm  sympathy, 
like  a  veil  woven  of  balm  and  sunshine,  over  the  world  of 
suffering  men,  treading  among  the  flowers  of  the  earth  with 
the  light  of  heaven  circling  about  their  heads — who  should 
be  happier  than  the  gifted?  And  Ida  Ravelin  was  —  oh,  so 
happy  !  Happy  was  she  in  her  own  genius,  in  her  power  of 
creating  inner  sunshine — happy  in  the  human  love  which  was 
lavished  on  her  by  the  few  who  wondered  at,  even  as  they 
I,  the  power  she  exercised  over  them — happy  in  the 

lutiful,  beautiful  things  of  God's  creation,  which  sprang  up 
beneath  her  feet  and  hovered  over  her  head — but  happier 
still  in  the  fond  dream"  of  her  heart's  inner  chamber — the  deep, 
impassioned  love  which  she  had  lavished  so  unsparingly  upon 
her  spirit's  twin.  So  the  child  went  onward,  passed  under 
her  triumphal  arch  to  womanhood,  and  the  angel  within  her 


2;«  IDA    RAVELIN. 

was  not  recognized.     So,  many  an  angel  "  walks  the  earth 
unseen,"  since  the  close  of  the  gate  of  Eden. 

Ida  Ravelin  was  still  young,  but  not  beautiful.  It  is  said 
that  the  spirit's  beauty  cannot  be  shut  within,  as  you  would 
shut  the  diamond  in  the  casket,  hiding  all  its  light ;  but  that 
the  radiance  illuminating  the  inner  temple  will  spread  itself 
over  the'face,  proclaiming  to  all  who  come  near,  "  here  dwells 
an  angel."  I  know  that  sometimes  the  angel  in  the  boscm 
looks  out  through  human  eyes,  and  puts  its  own  impress  on 
human  lips  ;  but  this  earth  has  sadly  changed  since  the  ladder 
of  the  old  patriarch's  dream  was  let  down  from  heaven  ;  and 
there  are  things  enow  in  it  to  make  the  beautiful  spirit  oftener 
veil  its  sorrowful  face  with  its  own  pinion,  as  though  thus  to 
wait  for  the  final  release.  The  radiance  which  would  be  daz- 
zling to  a  mortal  eye  in  heaven,  is  subdued  by  the  sin-heavy 
atmosphere  of  this  world  into  a  feeble  glimmer ;  but  it  is  all 
there,  and  waiting  only  the  call  homeward  to  become  glorious. 
But  what  if  the  beauty  of  the  spirit  should  come  out  before 
the  world  and  sit  upon  the  brow  ?  The  angel  would  still  be 
unrecognized ;  for  men  are  not  gifted  with  a  pure  vision,  and 
the  gross  eye  cannot  see  beyond  the  handsome  shape  and  the 
brilliant  coloring.  When  the  crowd  bows  to  personal  ugli- 
ness, made  beautiful  by  soul,  the  fallen  Zareph  and  his  fair 
Nama  may  spread  their  wings — they  are  very  near  to  heaven. 

Ida  Ravelin  was  not  beautiful ;  even  those  who  loved  her 
most  did  not  attempt  to  say  it,  and  strangers  passed  her  by 
without  a  glance.  It  is  true  that  her  slight,  delicately  moulded 
figure  was  faultless ;  but  there  was  a  shrinking  timidity  in 
her  step  and  manner,  which  effectually  shaded  this  beauty. 
Her  eye  had  a  clear  light,  but  that  was  timid  too.  At 
there  was  a  soft,  dove-like  expression  in  it,  and  again 
burned  from  its  centre  a  deep,  soul-fraught  brilliancy,  and  its 
vision  seemed  prolonged  far  into  eternity ;  but  it  was  too  full 
of  thought.  Her  full,  round  forehead  was  too  severely  intel- 
lectual, and  the  rich,  heavy  braids  which  bound  her  magnifi- 
cently formed  head  could  not  compensate  for  its  singularly 


IDA    RAVELIN.  233 

lofty  developments.  The  lower  part  of  the  face  was  of  a 
different  mould.  Ida  had  never  possessed  regular  features, 
although  in  childhood  she  was  strikingly  beautiful.  Her 
mouth  had  been  made  lovely  by  the  sweet  smiles  which 
habitually  clustered  around  it,  rather  than  by  the  chiselling 
of  the  Architect;  but  now  the  character  of  the  smile  was 
changed.  Like  the  one  centred  in  the  eye,  it  was  heavily 
laden  with  thought.  Ida  had  a  bosom  full  of  light  and  love  ; 
and,  in  rich,  heavy  clusters,  lay  upon  her  heart  the  closely- 
folded  blossoms  of  genius.  Upon  her  heart.  That  genius 
would  ever  build  its  altar  there ! 

But  Ida  had  her  hand  closely  on  her  bosom's  door-,  lest 
these  treasures  should  escape.  She  had  placed  it  there  at  the 
first  stirring  of  the  swelling  buds,  and,  as  they  gradually 
struggled  more  for  freedom,  she  pressed  her  hand  down  more 
and  more  closely,  and  whispered  to  herself —  "  Never  —  never 
—  never,  but  in  heaven  !"  And  this  struggle  made  itself  vis- 
ible upon  her  face.  The  smile  was  there,  but  it  was  thought- 
ful ;  the  sweetness  had  not  vanished,  but  it  was  usually  over- 
shadowed by  reserve ;  sometimes  there  was  a  soft  lovingness 
flitted  to  her  lip,  but  it  could  scarce  be  recognized  before  it 
retreated,  as  though  chilled  or  scared  back  by  the  cold  world 
it  looked  out  upon.  It  would  not  have  been  singular  for  a 
stranger  to  imagine  her  a  gloomy  ascetic ;  common  acquaint- 
ances considered  her  merely  uninteresting ;  but,  despite  the 
prisoned  genius,  with  all  its  swellings,  and  with  all  its  strag- 
glings, her  friends,  those  who  knew  her  best,  took  her  to  their 
hearts,  and  felt  that  there  was  an  angel  there,  although  they 
did  not  see  beyond  the  wires  of  the  cage.  Ida  was  not  morose, 
nor  misanthropic,  nor  sad,  nor  an  enemy  to  mirth ;  she  was 
too  thoughtful  and  too  much  reserved.  It  did  not  mate- 
affect  her  intercourse  with  those  she  really  loved  ;  for 
love  covers  a  multitude  of  shortcomings,  and  Ida  had  enough 
to  satisfy  common  friendship,  without  encroaching  upon  her 
sacred  treasure.  Few  would  believe  that  Ida  was  happy  ;  for, 
though  she  looked  with  an  interested  eye  on  mirthful  doings, 
she  never  mingled  in  them.  She  had  seen  but  little  of  the 

VOL.  n.  20* 


234 


IDA    RAVELIN. 


outer  world ;  and,  though  she  had  studied  closely  the  fevr 
pages  within  her  reach,  she  was  but  slightly  under  its  influ- 
ence, either  for  joy  or  sorrow.  However  dense  the  clouds 
above  her,  the  rainbow  always  spanned  her  heart.  Her  world 
was  within ;  and,  as  it  was  too  sacred  to  be  looked  upon  by 
other  eyes,  she  shut  up  with  it  the  bliss  it  brought,  and  car- 
ried everywhere  her  Eden  with  her.  Oh,  Ida  was  deeply, 
purely,  silently  happy.  Misery  is  -not,  as  worldlings  have 
declared,  and  the  puling  sentimentalist  labored  to  establish, 
the  twin  gift  of  genius.  It  is  not  so  —  it  cannot  be  !  Let 
the  whole  world  frown  ;  let  the  cloud  darken,  and  the  winds 
rave  —  it  is  all  the  same  ;  the  fires  of  adversity  will  burn  away 
only  the  dross,  and,  in  the  midst  of  all,  will  walk  unseen  the 
white-winged  angel.  And  that  holy  angel  spreads  its  shield 
over  the  sensitive  bosom,  and  holds  always  to  the  thirsty  lips 
the  cup  of  bliss.  Are  my  true  words  doubted,  because  there 
are  so  many  examples  of  a  different  seeming  ?  Oh  !  there 
are  men,  drunk  with  vain-glory,  and  with  ambition,  and  other 
earth -distilled  draughts,  whose  lips  never  touched  the  cup  of 
inspiration.  Men  sometimes  hear  a  voice  in  the  air,  and  mis- 
take its  tone.  There  are  many  false  angels  abroad,  and  they 
deceive  many.  Some,  too,  have  filled  their  bosoms  up  with 
defilements ;  and  from  such  the  angel  turns  away  to  weep, 
casting  her  protecting  shield  at  her  feet,  while  the  shafts  of 
misery  fly  thick  and  fast.  Genius  cannot  bring  her  accus- 
tomed blessing  to  those  who  would  have  her  dwell  apart  from 
purity ;  and  when  her  temple  grows  dark  with  earthliness, 
her  lamp  blazes  in  the  midst,  a  consuming  fire.  He  who 
would  pollute  the  wings  of  his  bosom-angel,  must  needs  be 
miserable.  But,  the  gifted,  the  God-gifted,  do  they  but 
recognize  their  Benefactor,  are,  in  a  peculiar  manner,  th^ 
little  children  of  this  world  ;  and  little  children  have  received 
at  the  hands  of  a  Holy  One  an  especial  blessing.  So  the 
thoughtful-eyed,  sober-lipped  Ida  was  supremely  happy. 

Their  voices  —  those  of  Ida  and  the  brother-spirit  that  she 
had  so  early  recognized  —  had  met  each  other  in  the  upper 


IDA    RAVELIN.  235 

air,  and  mingled  tones.  Long  since  had  the  twain  linked 
themselves  in  a  relationship  which  only  the  blessed  little  chil- 
dren, gifted  with  spirit-pulses,  can  understand.  Why  could 
not  this  be  enough?  Ida  thought  it  was ;  and  yet,  lovers  in 
spirit,  in  person  strangers,  they  met. 

It  was  a  cold,  dark,  dismal,  cloud-curtained  morning,  when 
Ida  Ravelin  was  called  to  confide  her  heart-worship  to  the 
less  romantic  eye.  She  had  been  conscious  of  a  strange 
shadow,  hanging  over  her  head,  for  days;  and  now  she 
whispered,  with  white  lips,  "  It  is  falling  —  it  is  falling ! "  and 
arose  to  obey  the  summons. 

Ugh  !  how  chillingly  the  hurrying  wind  swept  around  the 
corner ;  and  what  a  dismal  tone  it  had,  like  the  midnight 
howl,  which  comes  to  tell,  to  the  invalid,  tales  of  the  noisome 
grave.  Heavy  was  the  slow,  dragging  step  of  Ida  Ravelin, 
and  heavier  still  her  heart.  She  knew  that  the  eye  of  curi- 
osity, the  earth-taught  tongue,  could  not  link  closer  together 
two  spirits  which  had  no  need  of  such  mediums.  One  by  one, 
stair  after  stair,  her  steps  slowly  counted  ;  finally,  she  poised 
for  one  agitating  moment  on  the  last,  with  a  foot  thrust 
tremblingly  and  doubtfully  forward,  again  descended,  moved 
onward  mechanically,  and  laid  her  hand  upon  the  door. 
Hast  thou  but  been  dreaming,  Ida ;  and  is  the  vapor  which 
thy  heart's  censer  has  caused  to  envelop  thee,  to  pass  off  like 
a  smoke-curl  in  the  clear  air,  leaving  thee  all  disrobed  of  thy 
enchantment  ?  Not  so.  Ida  Ravelin  would  have  known  her 
poet ;  for  the  angel  of  genius  had  a  glorious  temple.  But 
she  did  not  spring  forward  to  meet  him  ;  she  did  not  smile  ; 
even  the  usual  light  of  her  eye  was  clouded  in ;  she  would 
have  known  her  poet,  but  she  was  not  recognized. 

Slowly  and  chillingly  the  shadow  settled  down  upon  her 
%eart ;  and  then  came  a  cold  smile,  and  words  as  cold ;  and 
the  twain  sat  together,  like  strangers  of  different  lands,  with- 
out any  common  sympathies,  and  spoke  of  that  which  inter- 
ested neither,  and  mocked  each  other  with  hollow  compli- 
ments ;  and  then,  with  a  cold  clasp  of  the  hand,  and  a  formal 
bow,  they  parted.  Ida's  heart  had  never  beat  so  sluggishly 


236  IDA    RAVELIN. 

as  at  that  moment,  and  her  lip  might  have  been  moulded  of 
iron. 

They  met  again,  and  yet  again,  and  again ;  and  still  Ida's 
voice  seemed  chilling,  her  lip  severe,  and  her  manner  almost 
repellant.  She  felt  that  she  was  unknown ;  arid  the  entire 
sunshine  and  beauty  of  years  of  dreamy  bliss  seemed  to  her 
darkened  in  a  moment.  Finally,  however,  the  smile  upon 
her  lip  began  to  beam  with  soul ;  a  dewiness  crept  to  her  eye, 
a  softness  gathered  about  her  heart,  and  words  were  spoken 
which  could  never  have  been  addressed  to  any  other.  She 
knew,  though  he  did  not  say  it,  that  her  poet-friend  had 
begun  to  recognize  his  beautiful  invisible;  and  the  broken 
spirit-link  was  melting  into  itself,  and  conjoining.  There 
was  something,  too,  in  his  voice,  which  went  down  into  her 
heart,  and  touched  a  chord  that  had  never  before  vibrated. 
On  a  sudden,  all  the  hoarded  wealth  of  her  nature  was  stirred. 
The  angel  sprang  up,  and  spread  a  pair  of  wings  gloriously 
beautiful.  The  swelling  buds  burst  into  full  blossom,  raising 
a  cloud  of  perfume.  A  thousand  little  harps  were  tuned,  and, 
at  every  breath  she  drew,  her  bosom  quivered  with  the  rich 
gush  of  melody.  And  her  hand,  and  her  lip  too,  quivered, 
and  her  voice  grew  tremulous  with  strange  emotion.  The 
nour  of  release  had  come.  A  finger  from  without  had 
touched  the  hidden  spring,  and  the  long  prisoned  spirit  of  Ida 
Ravelin  was  free.  But  it  did  not  leap  forth  from  its  cage 
exultingly.  The  atmosphere  of  earth  was  an  untried  element 
to  it ;  and  there  was  still  a  hand  striving  to  hold  it  back. 
But  Ida  Ravelin  was  no  longer  mistress  of  her  own  nature. 
The  weak  hand  trembled  —  the  tumult  increased  —  and  the 
wild  flood  bounded  past  the  slight  barrier.  The  angel  was 
triumphant!  No  wonder  that  Ida  was  perplexed  and  over- 
come with  doubt  and  dread,  trembling  at  the  present,  an# 
refusing  to  look  on  the  future.  The  low,  melodious  tones  of 
her  poet-friend  were  full  of  encouragement  and  hope,  but  his 
eye  was  earthly.  He  could  not  see  down  into  the  depths  of 
spirit  which  his  voice  had  stirred,  and  understand  the  cause 
of  the  quickened  breath  and  the  tremulous  lip.  Gently,  and 


IDA    RAVELIN.  237 

with  patient  kindness,  hour  after  hour,  he  strove  with  poor 
Ida's  weak  timidity,  until  his  words  became,  for  the  time, 
strength  to  her;  and,  at  last,  most  confidingly  she  placed  her 
hand  in  his  to  be  taught  and  guided. 

The  noble  poet  and  his  Ida  (his  before  heaven,  though  only 
tne  pure  above  would  know  how  to  recognize  the  tie  that 
bound  them)  stood  in  the  night  air,  with  clasped  hands  and 
clasped  spirits.  The  stars  up  in  heaven  looked  kindly  upon 
them,  and  the  wind  swept  by,  kissing  warm  lips,  and  dallying 
with  curls,  and  touching  with  soft  wing  a  brow  which  bore 
the  Deity's  own  impress.  Far  before  them  stretched  the  still 
waters  of  the  most  beautiful  lake  in  the  wide  world,  with  the 
lights  from  the  opposite  shore  twinkling  through  the  trees, 
and  flashing  out  upon  it  in  sudden  gushes,  which  broke  and 
departed,  leaving  their  places  to  others;  and  behind  them 
were  the  swelling  tones  of  cunning  instruments,  bearing  on 
their  wings  of  melody  the  soul-laden  voice  of  a  woman.  The 
full  moon  was  far  up  in  heaven,  and  cast  upon  the  water  a 
broad  stream  of  golden  light.  A  little  boat  would  now  and 
then  shoot  across  this  moon-gift,  the  oars  flashing  with  dia- 
monds as  it  went,  dragging  far  after  it  a  long,  glittering  train ; 
and  then  it  would  steal  silently  along  the  shore,  and  the  rough 
boatmen  would  rest  on  their  oars,  and  feast  their  eyes  on 
beauty  and  their  ears  on  melody,  and  perhaps  dream  of 
holier  things  than  had  ever  found  a  place  in  their  thoughts 
before. 

"  The  angels  have  paved  a  pathway  of  light — our  path  of 
life,  dear  Ida." 

In  a  moment  a  cloud  passed  over  it,  a  shadow  fell,  and  the 
path  was  broken.  Ida  raised  her  dark,  pensive  eyes  to  the 
poet's  face,  but  her  voice  was  shut  in  her  heart. 

"  It  is  only  for  a  moment.  Some  steps  must  be  taken  in 
darkness.  \Ve  are  yet  on  earth,  and  earth  is  a  place  of  shad- 
ows. But  mark  the  brilliance  beyond,  as  though  the  portal 
of  Paradise  were  already  thrown  open  ;  and  its  glory  lighted 
up  our  way  as  we  draw  near  our  haven  of  rest.  It  is  a  beau- 
»iful  path,  my  Ida!" 


JioS  IDA     RAVELIN. 

"  Beautiful." 

Ida  Ravelin  responded  mechanically  ;  but  she  rested  her 
cheek  in  her  palm,  and  silently  retraced  her  own  steps  all 
along  the  emblematic  path.  It  was  narrow  at  first,  and  bro- 
ken Dark  waves  came  up  and  parted  the  light;  then  it  would 
rush  together  again,  the  bright  ripples  kissing  and  com- 
mingling. Further  on  were  other  little  breaks,  but  the  bril- 
liance grew  broader  and  stronger,  as  she  proceeded,  until  she 
came  to  the  shadow. 

"  It  has  been  a  heavy  one,"  thought  Ida,  "  this  disappoint- 
ment and  this  struggle,  but — why  struggle  ?  '  Unlike  others ! ' 
—  it  was  whispered  in  my  infancy — it  steals  up  from  the  sod 
every  time  I  kneel  beside  her  grave.  My  mother !  my  angel 
mother !  I  can  '  keep  my  treasures  for  the  eye  of  heaven,'  as 
thou  badest  me,  but  I  must  be  true  to  my  better  nature." 

The  spirit  in  her  bosom  arose  and  asserted  its  might.  A 
serene  smile  sat  upon  her  lip ;  a  steady  light  came  to  her 
eye ;  and  her  quivering  pulse  calmed  itself  and  beat  with 
slow,  triumphant  earnestness.  Her  companion  looked  at  her 
and  wondered  at  the  change. 

"  It  has  been  a  heavy  one,  but  now  I  am  free ! "  The 
words  passed  from  her  lips  in  a  low  murmur,  which  the  ear 
could  not  catch;  but  she  felt  her  heart  grow  strong;  and,  as 
she  looked  again,  the  shadow  was  lifted  from  the  water. 

The  next  day  Ida  and  her  poet  friend  parted;  and,  though 
she  did  not  say  it,  she  knew  their  next  meeting  would  be  in 
heaven.  They  had  not  loved  as  others  do ;  it  had  been  a 
peculiar  affection,  coined  in  the  innermost  recesses  of  two 
spirits  which  had  been  melted  into  each  other  long  before  a 
thought  had  been  given  to  the  caskets  which  contained  them 
— pure,  and  holy,  and  elevated — without  a  particle  of  earth- 
liness  commingling — a  beautiful  and  a  hallowed  thing.  And 
they  had  been  brought  no  nearer  by  the  meeting.  The  clay 
•was  a  hindrance  to  them,  and  now  Ida  longed  to  cast  it  off. 
The  chain  which  linked  them  together  could  only  gather 
strength  in  heaven.  And  yet  it  was  a  sorrowful  thing  to  part, 
with  all  the  sweet  remembrances  encircling  those  few  blessed 


IPA    RAVELIN.  239 

days  lying  in  their  fresh,  pure  beauty  upon  the  heart.  The 
tears  rushed  to  the  eyes  of  Ida,  but  they  were  shut  back  again 
resolutely ;  her  voice  became  even  more  tremulous  than  on 
the  day  previous,  and  her  pale  lip  quivered  with  strong  emo- 
tion. Poor  Ida !  The  cloud  had  not  wholly  vanished. 

"  If  he  could  but  know  that  the  parting  is  for  time,"  whis- 
pered the  heart  of  Ida ;  and  she  shaded  her  eyes  with  her 
hand,  for  the  tears  would  be  kept  back  no  longer.  For  the 
first  time  she  was  guilty  of  a  murmur,  and  that  against  the 
beloved. 

"His  heart  could  not  be  aching  so,  and  mine  not  recognize 
the  pain." 

She  felt  the  touch  of  a  hand,  the  pressure  of  lips  on  her 
bowed  forehead,  heard  a  low,  sweet  word  of  farewell,  that 
might  never  be  forgotten,  a  step  in  the  passage  that  fell  on  her 
ear  like  the  toll  of  a  muffled  bell,  the  closing  of  a  door,  and 
she  was  alone  with  heaven.  Poor  Ida !  How  she  sobbed 
and  wore  out  the  lagging  hours  with  weeping. 

Enviable  Ida !  She  was  awake.  The  angel  in  her  bosom 
fluttered  no  longer  behind  the  prisoning  bars;  and  on  the 
broad  earth  not  a  human  heart  so  blest  as  hers.  Intense, 
earnest  thought  still  made  its  home  in  her  eye ;  but  beside  it 
was  the  light  of  conscious  inner  power,  and  purity,  and  love, 
all  commingling ;  a  self-acknowledged  affinity  to  the  invisible 
ones  which  hovered  over  her.  The  harp  in  her  bosom  had 
been  attuned  to  those  above,  and  not  an  earthly  finger  had 
power  to  produce  a  discord.  Now  was  Ida  Ravelin  prepared 
for  the  world,  and  prepared  for  heaven;  for,  strangely  enough, 
both  require  the  same  preparation.  The  robe  that  can  be 
soiled  by  contact  with  things  below  is  not  the  one  to  glitter 
among  the  stars. 

Ida  Ravelin  was  not  beautiful,  but  she  had  no  further  need 
of  beauty.  The  angel  which  had  always  been  shut  within 
her  bosom  came  out  and  hovered  round  her ;  and  men  sought, 
as  though  there  had  been  some  strange  witchery  there,  the 
shadow  of  its  wings.  The  touch  of  her  finger  thrilled ;  the 


240  IDA    RAVELIN. 

glance  of  her  eye  melted ;  the  sound  of  her  voice  enchanted. 
It  was  the  magnetism  of  genius.  Now  was  the  path  of  Ida 
Ravelin  strewed  with  flowers,  and  their  perfume  was  grateful 
to  her.  The  altar  of  her  glorious  nature  was  thronged  with 
worshippers,  and,  with  a  childlike  trustfulness,  Ida  gave  love 
for  what  seemed  love.  What  is  there  in  the  world  which 
God  has  made  to  look  upon  with  indifference  ?  What  in  the 
natures  God  has  moulded,  marred  and  soiled  though  they 
be  by  the  clay  they  are  prisoned  in,  to  regard  with  coldness  ? 
Oh,  a  brother's  heart,  however  pitiable  its  setting,  is  a  holy 
thing,  and  woe  be  to  the  foot  which  dares  to  rest  upon  it !  A 
brother's  hand !  it  may  be  stained,  but  there  is  a  pulse  in  it 
which  is  an  echo  to  the  stirrings  of  the  soul,  and  the  soul  is 
the  breath  of  God.  Who  dare  refuse  the  love-clasp  to  a  broth- 
er's hand  ? 

Ida  gave  love  for  love,  and  many  revelled  in  its  pure  sun- 
light ;  but  her  soul  had  an  inner  chamber,  a  veiled  temple,  to 
which  the  world  was  not  admitted.  It  was  the  trysting  place 
of  two  spirits  which  waited  to  keep  a  yet  holier  tryst  in  heaven. 

The  world  had  stepped  between  the  two  friends,  and  they 
could  meet  only  in  heart. 

There  were  grey  hairs  on  the  temples  of  Ida  Ravelin,  but 
the  flowers  were  yet  fresh  within,  and  still  fond  ones  gathered 
near  to  taste  their  perfume. 

Away  in  a  strange  land,  an  old  man  was  dying.  Tears 
wetted  his  pillow,  and  warm  lips  strove  with  kisses  to  melt 
the  gathering  ice  of  death.  Soft  fingers  lay  upon  his  temples, 
an  anxious  hand  pressed  against  his  heart,  trembling  as  its 
pulsations  grew  fainter,  and  mingled  voices,  made  sharp  with 
anguished  feeling,  went  up  to  heaven  most  pleadingly ;  but 
the  spirit  had  looked  over  the  bounds  of  time,  and  it  could  not 
be  won  back  again.  The  old  man  smiled,  and  raised  an  eye 
to  heaven,  whispered  a  cherished  name,  and  died ! 

Ida  Ravelin  sat  in  the  midst  of  a  wrapt  circle,  scattering 
her  buds  of  thought  and  feeling  with  a  lavish  hand.  Sud- 


IDA    RAVELIN.  241 

denly  that  veiled  inner  temple  was  strangely  illuminated.  A 
glorious  radiance  beamed  out  upon  her ;  meltingly  it  circled 
round,  bathing  all  within  with  bliss,  and  she  felt  the  enfolding 
clasp  of  wings  invisible.  Oh !  that  her  soul  should  remain 
the  longest  prisoner !  A  soft  whisper  stole  down  into  her 
heart,  and  its  answer  was  a  struggle.  She  must  be  free  !  A 
deep,  burning  brilliancy  sprang  to  her  eye  ;  the  crimson  gath- 
ered hurriedly  on  her  cheek ;  the  fevered  pulse  bounded  and 
staggered;  the  thousand  silver  chords,  which  had  kept  the 
heavenly  prisoner  so  long  in  its  earth-worn  cell,  stretched 
themselves  to  their  utmost  tension,  and  closed  over  it  with  a 
mad,  determined  energy,  then  snapped  asunder  and  shrivelled 
in  their  uselessness ;  and  the  angel  planted  a  foot  upon  the 
shattered  fabric,  and,  raising  its  white  wings  heavenward,  rose 
from  the  earth,  never  to  return  again. 

They  made  a  sweet  pillow  among  flowers,  and  streams, 
and  beautiful  singing-birds,  and  laid  a  head  upon  it,  and  wept 
long  over  this  mouldering  image  of  clay.  But  the  stone  they 
reared  in  that  beautiful  valley  spoke  falsely.  Ida  Ravelin 
was  not  there  ;  she  had  joined  the  loved  in  Paradise ! 

•VOL.  n.  21 


242 


TO  SPRING. 

A  WELCOME,  pretty  maiden ! 

Dainty-footed  spring ! 
Thou,  with  the  treasures  laden 

No  other  hand  can  bring. 
While  onward  thou  art  tripping, 
Children  all  around  are  skipping, 
And  the  low  brown  eaves  are  dripping 

With  the  gladsomest  of  tears. 

From  mossed  old  trees  are  bursting 

The  tiny  specks  of  green ; 
Long  have  their  pores  been  thirsting 

For  the  gushing  sap,  I  ween; 
With  scarce  a  shade  molesting, 
The  laughing  light  is  resting 
On  the  slender  group  that 's  cresting 

Yon  fresh,  green  hillock's  brow. 

At  the  timid  flower  it  glances, 

Beneath  the  maple's  shade  ; 
And  foiled,  it  lightly  dances 

With  the  bars  the  boughs  have  made  ; 
On  the  waters  of  the  river, 
Still  in  a  winter's  shiver, 
Its  golden  streamers  quiver, 

O'er-brimmed  with  lusty  life. 

The  folded  buds  are  blushing 

On  the  gnarled  apple-tree ; 
While,  the  small  grass-blades  a-crushing, 

Children  gather  them  to  see  ; 


TO    SPRING.  243 

And  the  bee,  thus  early  coming, 
All  around  the  clusters  humming, 
Upon  the  bland  air  thrumming, 
Plunges  to  the  nectared  sweets. 

Life,  life,  the  fields  is  flushing ! 

Joy  springs  up  from  the  ground ; 
And  joyous  strains  are  gushing 

From  the  woodland  all  around ; 
From  birds  on  wild  wings  wheeling, 
Up  from  the  cottage  stealing, 
From  the  full-voiced  woodman  pealing, 

Ring  out  the  tones  of  joy. 

Thrice  welcome,  pretty  maiden  ! 

With  thy  kiss  upon  my  cheek, 
Howe'er  with  care  o'erladen, 

Of  care  I  could  not  speak  ; 
Now,  I  '11  make  a  truce  with  sorrow, 
And  not  one  cloud  will  borrow 
From  the  dark,  unsunned  morrow ; 

I  will  be  a  child  with  thee. 


244 


THE   POETESS. 

AN    ALLEGORY. 

THERE  was  an  immense  lake  nestled  down  in  the  lap  of  a 
hilly  country,  and  fed  by  a  thousand  tributaries.  Among 
these  was  a  blithesome  little  sparkler,  which  oozed  up  through 
the  green  moss,  in  the  shadow  of  protecting  oaks  and  elm-trees, 
and  trickled  down  from  the  rocks,  at  the  foot  of  which  it 
gathered  up  its  forces  and  bounded  off,  dancing  and  laughing, 
to  its  destination.  The  genius  of  this  stream  was  a  dear  little 
innocent,  dwelling  in  an  amber  moss-cup  close  by,  and  loving 
most  truly  the  rosy  clouds  above  her,  and  the  green  earth  with 
its  jewel- work  of  flowers  and  dews  beneath.  And  she  was 
content  with  these — the  simple-souled  little  Undine !  But 
one  day,  a  luckless  day  perchance,  the  water-maiden  poised 
herself  upon  the  golden  rim  of  her  Sylvan  temple,  and  gazed 
earnestly  down  upon  the  lake,  which  lay  cradled  an  the  arch 
of  a  rainbow.  And  she  thought  within  herself  what  a  very 
nice  thing  it  would  be  just  to  deck  herself  in  the  jewels  she 
was  daily  pouring  into  the  bosom  of  the  lake,  and,  canopied 
by  that  bright  bow,  sing  to  the  multitudes  of  men  who  came 
down  to  drink  of  the  burnished  waters.  It  was  but  a  thought ; 
and  the  dear,  simple  little  Undine  was  on  her  way.  At  first 
she  was  intoxicated,  for  everything  was  new,  glowing,  glad- 
some ;  and  close  by  her  side  crept  one  who  whispered  sweet 
things  in  tones  deliciously  soft,  but  oh,  how  replete  with  false- 
hood !  The  sun  made  a  bright  path  for  her,  and  flecked  her 
robe  with  gold ;  the  white-blossomed  wild  shrub  showered  its 
tribute  of  purity  and  perfume  on  her  feet ;  shadows  came  to 
kiss  her  dimpled  mouth ;  the  bird  wetted  its  gay  wings,  and 
then  turned  to  fan  her  face,  scattering  pearls  at  every  wave  ; 
and  the  love-eyed  deer  upon  the  marge  of  the  stream  bent  its 


THE    POETESS.  245 

arched  neck,  but  forgot  to  drink,  because  she  was  there.  Oh, 
she  was  a  fresh,  happy  spirit,  singing  and  laughing  there  in 
the  wilderness,  loving  the  cool,  deep  shadows,  and  bearing 
always  on  her  breath  the  scent  of  violets !  A  fresh,  happy 
spirit  was  she  ; — what  a  pity  that  she  should  come  out  where 
she  must  barter  her  warm,  ingenuous,  beautiful  faith,  her 
simple  trustfulness,  and,  it  maybe,  her  love  and  truth,  for  the 
wisdom  which  makes  the  heart  barren !  Never  was  a  journey 
more  delightful  than  that  of  our  bright-lipped  little  wanderer, 
until  she  emerged  from  the  path  down  the  hill-side ;  but  there 
she  began  to  meet  with  countless  annoyances,  and  she  wished 
herself  back  again,  nestling  in  her  golden  cradle  in  the  wil- 
derness. Other  water-spirits  were  there,  older  than  herself 
and  world-wise ;  and,  at  first,  they  looked  disdainfully  upon 
this  simple  child  of  the  hill.  But  when  they  observed  her 
brightness  and  singular  purity,  and  knew  that  she  would  be 
preferred  to  themselves,  they  suddenly  assumed  great  friend- 
ship, and  attempted  to  unite  the  waters  of  their  own  brooks 
with  hers;  and  crossed  and  re-crossed  her  little  thread  of 
silver,  making  so  many  provoking  entanglements,  that  the 
hitherto  care-free  spirit  grew  weary,  and  had  scarcely  the 
courage  to  pursue  her  way.  Still  she  went  on,  though  with 
constantly  increasing  difficulty,  till  at  last  she  reached  the 
border  of  the  lake.  But  at  every  foot  of  ground  she  passed 
over,  the  disenchanted  little  spirit  felt  her  enthusiasm  ebbing. 
The  meadow,  which  had  looked  so  green  and  velvety  in  the 
distance,  was  covered  with  a  coarse  stunted  grass,  half  faded  ; 
and  the  trees  were  diminutive  and  unshapely.  As  for  the 
flowers, — the  scentless  arum  grew  there,  and  the  blood-red 
cardinalis,  and  the  deadly  water  hemlock ;  and,  now  and  then, 
some  cold  blue  blossom  bent  its  poisoned  chalice  for  a 
draught,  and  the  ominous  nightshade  nodded  among  the  inter- 
twisted roots  of  the  cypress  at  a  little  distance.  Oh,  how  the 
little  spirit  sighed  when  she  thought  of  the  fragrant  dog-wood, 
the  meek-eyed  violets,  and  the  frail,  beautiful  tiarella  of  her 
native  wood !  There  were  serpents,  too,  by  the  lake-side, 
nestled  in  the  rank  sedges,  and  croaking  frogs,  half  beauty, 
VOL.  n.  21* 


246  THE   POETESS. 

half  deformity,  and  a  thousand  other  things  which  made  OUT 
timid  little  Undine  look  with  deep  regret  upon  the  misty  curl 
of  blue  which  linked  her  mountain  home  with  the  clouds.  So 
she  wandered  in  a  strange  sadness  about  the  lake,  sometimes 
turning  from  the  barrier  raised  about  it  when  she  might  have 
passed,  and  sometimes  jostled  rudely  back  when  she  had  just 
resolved  to  cross,  till  at  last  a  strong,  kind  hand  was  extended 
to  her ;  she  trembled  for  a  moment  above  the  tide,  and  then 
dropped  down  into  the  bosom  of  the  lake.  How  bewildered 
was  she  there,  and  how  she  shivered  and  tried  to  smile,  and 
looked  all  about  her  to  find  some  compensation  for  the  dear 
things  she  had  left — the  awakened  little  dreamer  !  The  cold 
water-bath  had  spoiled  a  heaven  for  her. 

The  waters  of  the  lake  did  not  mingle  together.  There  lay 
the  turbid  alongside  the  clear  and  pure,  the  poisoned  flood 
and  the  stream  that  had  balm  in  it — there  was  every  variety 
in  the  great  lake,  and  men  might  come  and  drink  of  which 
they  chose ;  and  the  spirit  of  the  mountain  rivulet  grew  almost 
happy  again,  when  she  saw  bright  lips  bent  to  her  own  waters, 
and  brightening  still  more  as  they  quaffed.  But  she  must 
have  been  an  angel  to  deem  this  sufficient  compensation  for 
the  thousand  vexatious  annoyances  which  no  unsophisticated 
water-spirit,  who  has  never  followed  her  rich  gifts  to  the  altar 
of  the  world,  can  understand.  And  our  darling  little  Undine 
was  not  quite  an  angel ;  and  might  become  less  angelic  still, 
by  standing  too  long  beneath  the  arch  of  the  rainbow  with  all 
her  jewels  on.  Haste,  haste  thee  back,  pretty  wanderer, 
before  the  breath  of  the  dark  hemlock  has  filled  thy  veins  with 
poison,  or  the  sun  kissed  the  peach-blossom  from  thy  cheek, 
or  the  wrangling  waters  made  thy  soft  voice  harsh  as  their 
own,  or  disappointment  mildewed  thy  heart.  Haste  thee 
back,  simple  Undine,  and  rest  thy  throbbing  head  close  in  the 
bosom  of  the  golden  moss-cup. 


247 


DORAV. 

EYES,  like  a  wet  violet,  nestled  among  a  profusion  of  the 
softest-hued  Persian  fringes,  and  hair,  gathered  from  the  elfin 
fields  of  Erin,  and  combed  and  twisted  into  waves  by  fairy 
fingers — such  had  Dora'!  Then  those  lips,  with  their  sad 
sweetness,  and  the  love-thought  in  each  corner  !  and  the  pale, 
polished  cheek,  and  vein-crossed  forehead ! 

Sweet,  delicate  Dora' ! — much  do  I  fear,  that  such  a  vision 
of  loveliness  will  never  again  appear  at  Alderbrook. 

It  was  years  and  years  ago  that  Dora'  moved  among  our 
mothers  here,  with  a  step  like  a  fawn's,  a  head  erect  and 
earnest,  like  a  wild  deer  on  the  look-out  for  the  huntsman, 
and  a  face  full  of  half-joyous,  half-solemn  surprise,  such  as 
Eve  must  have  worn  when  her  foot  first  crushed  the  dews 
and  flowers  of  Eden.  Beautiful  was  Dora',  as  a  dream  which 
turns  from  the  daylight  to  nestle  in  some  young  heart,  or  a 
thought  that  refuses  to  syllable  itself  in  clumsy  words ;  and 
yet,  beautiful  was  she  never  called ;  but  all  paused  and  looked 
upon  her  as  she  passed  by,  and  smiled,  and  owned  a  stronger 
power,  though  they  knew  not  what  it  was,  than  that  of  beauty. 

Stand  by  me,  reader,  and  follow  the  direction  of  my  finger, 
over  the  bend  in  the  brook,  and  along  the  white  clover- 
field  to  the  foot  of  that  little  knoll  with  the  two  elm-trees  on 
its  crown.  Do  you  perceive  the  top  of  a  chimney  peeping 
from  the  green  things  piled  up  there,  like  a  monument  to  a 
Sylvan  ?  You  may  not  discover  it,  but  I,  who  have  looked 
so  many  times,  know  that  little  speck  of  reddish  brown  to  be 
a  chimney.  Well,  beneath  is  the  smallest  pattern  of  a  human 
shelter  that  your  eyes  ever  lighted  on ;  now  pretty  much  gone 
to  decay,  and  grown  entirely  over  with  moss  and  hop-vines. 
I  have  heard  that  a  white  rose-bush  once  quite  over-topped 


248  DORA'. 

the  front  corner,  and  sunflowers  innumerable  peeped  their 
yellow  heads  above  the  eaves  at  the  back ;  and  I  have  myself 
a  distinct  remembrance  of  stopping  to  admire  the  trumpet- 
honeysuckle,  that  years  ago  graced  the  door-way ;  but  not  u 
flowering  thing  opens  in  that  vicinity  now.  There,  all  alone, 
once  lived  Aunty  Evans ;  a  good,  gentle  old  woman,  who,  for 
the  want  of  better  things  to  love,  kept  always  about  her 
a  family  of  kittens,  chickens,  rabbits,  and  tame  pigeons. 
Besides  this,  she.  used  to  make  gingerbread  for  the  little 
people  that  always  looked  in,  upon  their  way  from  school, 
and  supply  the  whole  village  with  sage,  rue,  and  chamomile, 
from  a  garden  that  would  have  been  no  wonder  in  Lilliput. 
Aunty  Evans  could  not  have  been  said  to  be  without  the 
means  of  living,  for  she  fed  herself,  and  not  unfrequently  her 
less  industrious  neighbors,  with  the  proceeds  of  her  busiest 
of  all  busy  needles.  One  day,  a  letter,  marked  on  the  out- 
side, "  in  haste,"  was  sent  her  from  the  village  post-office ; 
and,  in  an  hour  after,  the  fire  was  extinguished  upon  her 
hearth,  the  latch-string  drawn,  and  Aunty  Evans,  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life,  found  herself  in  the  stage-coach.  In  a  few 
days  she  returned  with  a  pale,  sad  little  girl,  all  in  black,  and 
was  invited  at  once  to  a  grand  tea-party,  for  curiosity's  sake. 
But  the  old  lady  had  only  a  short  story.  A  friend  had  died, 
and  bequeathed  her  an  only  child. 

"  Has  she  money?"  asked  the  gossips. 

Aunty  Evans  said  "No;"  and  then  they  all  shook  their 
heads  and  looked  mysterious;  and  somehow,  in  a  few  minutes, 
though  there  could  be  no  connection  between  it  and  the  other 
subject,  they  were  all  talking  about  the  new  and  excellent 
regulations  which  had  been  made  at  the  almshouse.  Aunty 
Evans  expressed  herself  very  glad  that  the  poor  children 
were  to  be  better  cared  for;  and  thereupon  sipped  her  tea 
without  further  concern.  That  subject  was  immediately 
abandoned,  and  the  conversation  took  an  unaccountable  turn, 
calculated  to  overthrow  entirely  the  doctrine  of  association,  for 
somebody  began  talking  about  the  price  of  plain  needlework. 
Most  of  the  ladies  were  of  the  opinion.  th.Tt  a  sempstress 


DORA'.  249 

could  no  more  than  support  herself  comfortably ;  and  if  by 
chance -she  did  accomplish  more  than  that,  it  was  her  "  boun- 
den  duty  "  to  lay  by  the  surplus  for  a  "  rainy  day."  Aunty 
Evans  appeared  to  listen  to  all  this  very  composedly ;  but,  in 
reality,  her  thoughts  were  a  little  absent.  She  was  planning 
the  number  of  shirts  she  should  be  obliged  to  make,  in  order 
to  send  the  little  orphan,  Dora',  to  the  best  school  in  the 
village. 

Dora'  was  sent  to  school;  and  forthwith,  the  pale  child 
became  as  great  a  favorite  as  Aunty  Evans  herself.  Dora's 
voice  had  a  tone  to  it,  like  the  stroke  of  a  silver  bell,  reaching 
us  through  a  medium  of  tears;  and  she  might  always  be 
found,  whether  under  the  cherry-tree,  at  the  back  of  the 
school-house,  or  nestled  in  a  rich  clover-bed,  or  seated  on  the 
spotted  alders  by  the  brook-side,  with  a  group  of  children 
about  her,  singing  the  little  songs  that  she  learned  of  Aunty 
Evans.  How  deliciously  sweet  was  that  voice  !  And  though 
the  words  could  claim  to  be  of  no  higher  order  than 

"  Little  bird,  with  bosom  red, 
Welcome  to  my  humble  shed :" 
or, 

"  Pretty  bee,  busy  bee, 
If  you  'd  but  sing  to  me," 

many  a  stern  old  man  paused  to  listen,  and  many  a  business 
woman  raised  her  red  bandana  to  her  eyes,  as  those  clear, 
touching  tones  fell,  despite  the  crust  above  it,  on  her  heart. 
The  women  did  not  know  why  they  were  thus  affected ;  but 
Aunty  Evans  would  have  told  them  there  was  a  shadow 
within,  from  which  that  voice  stole  its  touch  of  sorrow,  and 
which,  later  in  the  day  of  her  life,  would  fall  back  upon  her 
heart. 

Aunty  Evans  might,  quite  unknown  to  those  about  her, 
have  been,  a  prophetess ;  but  Dora'  went  on,  year  after  year, 
singing  all  the  time  more  and  more  sweetly,  and  with  more 
touching  pathos,  while  the  shadow,  if  any  there  was,  must 
have  been  nearly  melted  by  the  neighboring  sunshine.  One 


250  DORA'. 

individual,  considering  himself  somewhat  wiser  than  his 
neighbors,  whispered  at  length  to  some  others,  that  the  pecu- 
liarity in  Dora'  Evans's  voice  was  the  despairing  plaint  of 
prisoned  genius;  but  Alderbrook  had  no  citizen  mad  enough, 
even  though  all  had  credited  the  suggestion,  to  bind  the  child 
for  this  to  a  lot  of  splendid  misery.  Dora's  neighbors  knew 
little  of  raising  a  God-given  power  to  that  point  of  famous 
infamy  where  even  its  admirers  are  privileged  to  jest  about 
it; — they  were  common  men,  and  had  never  learned  that  it 
is  the  misfortune  of  genius  to  consume  itself  in  a  bonfire,  that 
others  may  be  amused  in  its  coruscations.  So  Dora'  went  on 
singing  every  Sabbath  in  the  village  choir,  singing  at  the  fire- 
side of  Aunty  Evans,  and  singing  at  the  social  gatherings  in 
the  village  ;.  always  thankful,  and  rejoicing  that  she  had  a 
power  which  could  make  herself  and  everybody  else  so  happy. 
Thus  passed  year  after  year,  until  Dora'  was  fifteen ;  and  the 
shadow  had  as  yet  settled  on  neither  heart  nor  brow. 

Dora'  sat  upon  the  knoll  that  I  have  pointed  out  under  the 
two  elm-trees,  circled  by  a  row  of  young  faces,  all  turned 
earnestly  and  lovingly  to  hers. 

"  Sing  it  again,  Dora' !  do  !  do !  just  once  again,  dear  !  it 
is  so  pretty ! "  went  the  pleading  round  ;  and  Dora'  smiled,  and 
began  to  sing. 

That  morning  a  stranger  had  reached  Alderbrook  by  the 
stage-coach.  He  was  a  small  man,  slightly  moulded  ;  with 
eager  piercing  eyes,  two  wrinkles  passing  from  their  inner 
corners  half  way  up  the  forehead ;  an  aquiline  nose,  sallow 
cheeks,  and  thin  lips  always  pressed  closely  together.  Though 
he  could  scarcely  have  attained  the  middle  age,  he  was  slightly 
bald ;  frequent  threads  of  silver  mingled  in  his  black  hair  and 
beard ;  and  upon  his  face  there  was  many  a  line,  the  work  of 
a  more  hasty  pencil  than  time  carries.  Just  as  Dora'  com- 
menced her  song,  this  man  was  hurrying  along,  with  his  usual 
quick  step,  close  beside  the  fence.  As  the  first  strain  fell  on 
his  ear,  he  raised  his  eyes,  and  cast  up  to  the  clouds,  and 
away  into  the  tree-tops,  a  glance  of  eager  inquiry.  Again  it 


DORA'.  251 

came,  and  again ;  and  a  smile  full  of  beautiful  delight  broke 
over  the  listener's  compressed  lips,  and  a  fire  was  kindled  in 
the  centre  of  his  now  dilated  eye,  which  seemed  burning  back 
into  his  very  soul. 

"  Ha ! "  he  exclaimed,  as  his  glance  fell  upon  the  pretty 
group  cresting  the  green  knoll ;  and  then  he  crossed  his  arms 
upon  his  breast,  lowered  his  earnest  brows,  and  bent  his  ear 
to  listen. 

The  stranger  did  not  leave  Alderbrook  that  day ;  neither 
did  he  then  continue  his  walk ;  but,  returning  to  the  "  Sheaf 
and  Sickle,"  as  soon  as  the  little  party  beneath  the  elms  was 
broken  up,  he  possessed  himself  of  all  his  landlady  knew  con- 
cerning the  rustic  songstress. 

"  Such  a  voice  ! "  he  muttered,  as  he  strode  up  and  down 
the  piazza;  "  such  compass  !  such  delicacy !  such  pathos  !  she 
would  madden  them.  It  would  be  a  generous  deed,  too  — 
poor  orphan ! " 

He  passed  on,  his  steps  growing  every  moment  quicker  and 
his  eyes  more  eagerly  bright.  "  Ay,  ay !  I  will  do  it !  I 
cannot  leave  such  a  diamond  in  this  desert ! " 

•  That  night  the  artist  tapped  at  the  humble  door  of  Aunty 
Evans;  and  drawing  his  chair  alongside  the  old  lady,  un- 
folded his  plans.  She  listened  coldly. 

"  The  child  is  well  with  her  mother — she  cannot  go." 

"  But  such  a  gift,  madam ! " 

"  A  gift  from  God !  it  is  a  sin  to  tamper  with  it." 

"  Ay,  from  God  !"  answered  the  artist  solemnly ;  "  it  is  a 
sin  to  leave  it  unimproved." 

An  hour  was  spent  in  fruitless  argument,  when  the  com- 
poser suddenly  inquired,  "  But  what  says  the  young  lady 
herself  ?  let  her  speak." 

"  Yes,  let  Dora'  answer,"  returned  Aunty  Evans,  trium- 
phantly. "  Thank  God !  I  may  trust  her !  what  say  you, 
my  child?" 

"  What  sayest  thou,  gifted  one,  to  the  glorious  art  ? " 

Dora's  face  was  buried  in  the  folds  of  muslin  that  hung 
about  the  little  window,  and  at  first  she  did  not  raise  it. 


252  DORA'. 

"  Speak  as  you  would  have  it,  darling,"  said  the  old  lady, 
softly,  drawing  near,  and  bending  over  her  idol. 

Such  dreams  as  had  been  swimming  in  the  young  girl's 
fancy !  Such  a  consciousness  that  every  word  the  composer 
had  said  of  her  wondrous  power  was  true  !  Such  an  irre- 
sistible longing  to  give  utterance  to  an  undefinable  something 
that  she  had  always  felt  struggling  within  her !  How  could 
she  resist  it  ?  Dora'  loved  her  kind  foster-mother ;  but  now 
there  was  a  fever  at  her  heart  and  her  brain  was  in  a  whirl. 
She  raised  her  eyes.  How  changed  were  they !  the  soft, 
meek  dewiness  had  passed — they  had  grown  larger  and 
darker,  and  wore  an  intensity  of  meaning,  a  depth  of  feeling 
and  purpose,  that  made  them  strange  to  Aunty  Evans.  The 
love-thought  had  almost  vanished  from  the  corners  of  the 
mouth;  the  lips  lay  apart  like  two  lines  of  burning  crimson, 
the  upper  drawn  up  and  knotted  in  the  middle,  and  a  spot  of 
bright  red  glowed  in  the  centre  of  each  pale  cheek.  Dora' 
did  not  speak.  It  needed  not  that  she  should. 

"  The  shadow  is  falling ! "  murmured  Aunty  Evans.  "  My 
poor,  poor  Dora' !  Oh,  I  have  had  a  fearful  watch ! " 

She  folded  the  child  in  her  arms,  kissed  her  hot  cheek, 
placed  her  hands  upon  her  throbbing  temples  ;  and,  saying  to 
the  composer,  "  She  will  go  with  you,"  motioned  him  to  leave 
them  alone. 

Aunty  Evans  was  not  so  ignorant  of  worldly  things,  as  to 
trust  her  precious  charge,  without  due  precaution,  to  the  keep- 
ing of  a  stranger.  She  possessed  herself  of  ample  knowledge 
concerning  the  character  and  standing  of  the  composer ;  and 
was  very  exacting  in  all  her  arrangements  for  the  child's  wel- 
fare, evincing  a  lynx-eyed  policy  that  she  had  never  been 
supposed  to  possess.  Above  all,  she  insisted  on  her  being 
allowed  to  return  to  her  humble  home  at  any  moment  she 
should  express  the  wish.  So  Dora'  went  away  from  Alder- 
brook,  and  Aunty  Evans  was  left  alone. 

Bright  Summer  passed  in  her  glory — melancholy  Autumn 
laid  a  worn  head  upon  the  bosom  of  Winter,  and  with  sitrhs 


DORA'.  263 

yielded  up  the  spirit — and  Winter  came  on  with  his  cold 
breath  and  blazonry  of  jewels.  Six  months  had  passed  away 
since  Dora'  sang  to  her  companions  on  the  knoll  beneath  the 
two  elm- trees.  Now  she  stood  in  a  luxuriously  furnished 
apartment,  the  soft  flaxen  ringlets  shading  her  delicate  throat 
as  of  yore,  but  with  little  else  to  mark  her  identity  with  the 
violet-eyed  child  that  had  sung  in  the  fields  at  Alderbrook. 
The  pale,  earnest  face  of  the  composer  looked  out  upon  her 
adimringly  from  a  pile  of  cushions  at  the  other  end  of  the 
apartment ;  and  she  was  aware  of  the  gaze,  and  seemed  bent 
on  gratifying  him,  for  her  small  hands  were  clasped  with  un- 
wonted energy,  and  determination  burned  in  her  cheek  and 
flashed  from  her  eye.  She  stood  near  a  piano  at  which  a 
stranger  was  seated ;  and,  after  his  fingers  had  passed  over 
the  keys,  her  voice  broke  forth  in  all  its  olden  melody.  Bat 
now  it  was  subject  to  her  control;  now  she  knew  the  feeling 
that  she  would  express,  and  her  voice  became  but  the  wings 
to  bear  it  out.  The  prisoned  genius  had  found  utterance. 
Was  Dora'  happy  now  ?  Out  upon  such  simplicity !  How 
could  it  be  otherwise  ?  Was  she  not  about  to  entrance  a 
world  ?  What  blissful  emotions  would  creep  into  a  thousand 
hearts  at  listening !  And  would  not  the  enchantress  find  an 
all-sufficient  reward  in  the  adulation  of  millions  ?  Ah  !  Dora', 
Dora' !  bend  thy  brow  to  the  halo !  tread  upon  the  roses  ! 
Never  think  how  the  first  may  darken ;  how  the  last  may 
shrivel  and  fall  away  from  the  sharp  thorns  beneath  them ! 
The  path  has  been  well  trodden  and  watered — pass  on  ! 

The  good  composer,  Dora's  friend,  was  dead. 

It  had  been  published  far  and  wide,  told  in  the  drawing- 
room  and  in  the  coffee-house,  in  the  private  parlor  and  in  the 
public  saloon,  in  hall,  alley  and  shop,  lisped  in  the  boudoir 
and  cried  in  the  street — everywhere,  in  all  the  places  where 
the  virtuous*  dwell  and  vicious  hide  themselves,  it  had  been 
told  that  a  new  star  had  arisen  in  the  musical  horizon ;  and 
those  who  would  never  rare  for  the  artiste  on  account  of  her 

VOL.  TI.  22 


254  DOBA'. 

art,  were  told  that  she  was  young  and  beautiful.  What  a 
crowd  came  out  to  greet  the  first  appearance  of  our  star ! 
Should  she  not  have  felt  honored  ?  Lights  flashed,  jewels 
blazed,  plumes  waved  and  nodded,  smiles  sped  to  their  desti- 
nation, or  lost  themselves  upon  the  air,  and  all  —  for  her  ? 
Not  one,  not  one  !  Poor  Dora' !  even  in  her  triumph,  how 
desolate ! 

A  burst  of  applause  greeted  her  appearance;  and,  for  a 
moment,  her  heart  bounded,  and  her  eye  flashed  with  grati- 
fied ambition.  Then  rows  of  faces  gaped  upon  her  from  pit, 
box,  and  gallery ;  eyes  were  strained,  and  glasses  levelled, 
and  the  young  songstress  felt  the  warm  blood  mounting  has- 
tily to  her  forehead.  Poor  Dora' !  even  in  her  triumphs  how 
humiliated ! 

She  sang  as  she  had  ever  sung ;  for  genius  is  always  con- 
scious of  its  own  sacredness,  and  will  not  be  stared  down  by 
bold  impudence,  nor  raised  up  by  admiring  plaudits.  She 
sang,  and  garlands  fell  at  her  feet,  and,  all  night  long,  the 
applauses  of  that  multitude  rang,  like  the  idle  mockeries  that 
they  were,  in  her  ear.  Was  it  for  this  she  had  toiled,  and 
hoped,  and  given  her  better  nature  up  to  a  withering  ambition  ? 
Was  this  her  temple  in  the  clouds,  now  dissolving  in  its  own 
nothingness  —  a  thing  of  vapor,  bound  together  by  a  chain  of 
gilded  water-drops  ?  The  wings  were  melted,  and  Icarus  was 
fast  approaching  the  JEgean.  What  a  blessing  that  mankind 
so  seldom  reach  the  goal  of  hope  !  The  chase  is  glorious — 
in  empty,  unsatisfying  success  lies  the  curse. 

It  was  the  anniversary  of  the  evening  on  which  Dora'  had 
resolved  to  turn  from  the  bosom  of  her  foster-mother  to  the 
world  which  was  beckoning  her.  A  light  was  burning  on  the 
white  pine  table,  and  beside  it  sat  Aunty  Evans,  her  Bible  on 
her  knees.  She  appeared  older,  much  older,  than  on  that 
night  twelve-month.  Thought  had  cut  strange  lines  upon  her 
face,  and  deepened  the  look  of  simple  good  nature,  once  so 
conspicuous  there,  to  one  of  earnest,  almost  painful  solicitude. 
The  door  was  open,  and  the  fragrance  from  the  honey-suckles 


DORA'.  255 

and  roses  stole  into  the  apartment ;  but  Aunty  Evans  thought 
not  a  word  of  the  honey-suckles  and  roses.  She  was  indulg- 
ing itiost  painful  reflections.  A  passing  figure  rustled  the 
vines,  a  shadow  fell  across  the  door-way,  and  a  light  foot 
pressed  the  threshold  ;  yet  Aunty  Evans  looked  not  up. 

"Mother!  mother! — I  have  come  home  to  you  —  I  am 
sick,  I  am  weary  !  Give  me  a  place,  mother — a  place  to 
die  ! " 

There  were  sobbings  and  tears,  half  joyous,  half  heart- 
broken, in  the  little  cottage  that  night ;  and,  in  the  morning, 
all  the  villagers  gathered  to  look  upon  the  returned  idol.  How 
changed  !  Poor  Dora' !  it  is  needless  to  follow  thee  to  the 
grave.  The  spirit  that,  finding  food  nowhere  on  earth,  turns 
and  eats  into  itself,  can  endure  but  a  little  time  ;  and  we  will 
be  more  thankful  for  the  natural  light  that  again  beamed  in 
thine  eye,  and  the  natural  feeling  that  slumbered  about  thy 
lips,  than  sorry  for  thine  early  loss.  Thy  rest  is  among  the 
flowers,  where  the  bees  steal  their  sweets,  and  the  birds 
spread  their  wings  to  the  sunlight. 

Sleepest  thou  not  passing  well,  young  Dora'  ? 


266 


THE    DISSATISFIED    SPIRIT. 

GOD  "bowed  the  heavens  and  came  down,"  and  breathed 
upon  the  earth;  and  a  "living  soul"  was  born.  *t  was  not 
an  angel,  to  watch  over  the  destinies  of  man,  and  interpose  its 
white  wing  between  him  and  evil ;  but  it  was  a  thing  as 
lovely ;  and  so  it  looked  about  to  find  itself  a  fit  dwelling- 
place.  While  it  paused  in  doubt,  there  came  fluttering  by  a 
gay,  beautiful  creature,  its  bright  wings  woven  in  the  loom 
from  which  the  Iris  sprung,  all  glittering  in  gold  and  crimson, 
now  bathing  in  the  dew  and  now  in  the  sun-light,  brilliant 
and  blithesome,  and  light  as  the  air  on  which  it  balanced. 
The  spirit  grew  glad  at  the  pretty  sight,  and  as  the  tiny  won- 
der again  swept  past,  it  thought  within  itself,  "  What  a  delight- 
ful thing  to  be  a  butterfly ! "  Instantly,  a  pair  of  gorgeous 
wings  sprouted  from  the  thought ;  and  the  embodied  spirit 
flew  exultingly  up  and  down  the  earth,  careering  in  the  light, 
and  glorying  in  its  new-found  beauties.  Sometimes  it  paused 
to  peep  into  the  hearts  of  the  young  flowers  ;  and  sipped  dain- 
tily the  sweets  which  dwelt  on  their  fresh  lips,  and  fanned 
them  when  they  drooped,  and  bathed  in  their  perfume ;  and 
at  night  it  folded  up  its  wings  and  made  its  couch  where  the 
moon-beam  lay  most  lovingly.  But  it  could  not  sleep.  That 
was  a  breath  from  heaven,  stirring  those  gorgeous  wings,  the 
"  living  soul  "  within,  swelling  and  struggling,  conscious  that 
it  was  not  performing  its  mission.  There  could  not  be  a 
orighter  nor  gayer  life,  and  surely  the  innocent  little  butterfly 
was  not  guilty  of  doing  harm  ;  but  there  was  a  chiding  voice 
came  up  from  within,  and  the  dissatisfied  spirit  could  not 
sleep.  Finally,  it  grew  sorrowful,  even  in  the  midst  of  its 
light  companions,  as  they  poised  and  reeled  in  the  sunlight, 
intoxicated  by  the  mere  bliss  of  living.  And  every  day  it 
grew  more  and  more  sorrowful,  and  its  wings  heavier,  till  at 


THE    DISSATISFIED    SPIRIT.  257 

last  it  cried  out  in  sharp  anguish.  Beautiful  and  innocent 
was  the  life  of  the  gay  insect ;  but  the  God-born  spirit  was 
not  created  to  waste  itself  on  a  sunbeam  or  a  flower ;  and 
those  magnificent  wings  were  leaden  fetters  to  it.  A  bird 
was  carolling  on  the  tree  above,  and,  as  the  saddened  spirit 
looked  up,  it  thought  of  the  happy  hearts  which  the  little 
songster  made,  and  how  it  praised  God  in  its  light  joyousness, 
and  then  exclaimed,  pantingly,  "  What  a  sweet  thing  to  be  a 
bird ! " 

A  little  child  found  a  dead  butterfly  at  the  foot  of  the  red 
maple  tree,  that  morning ;  and  as  she  stooped  to  pick  it  up, 
there  came  such  a  gush  of  melody  from  the  green  above, 
that  she  started  back  in  pleased  astonishment ;  and  then, 
clapping  her  soft  hands  together,  she  raised  her  infantile  voice 
in  clear,  ringing  tones,  fraught  with  the  music  of  a  mirthful 
heart.  On  the  instant,  there  came  a  rushing  sound  from  the 
massive  foliage ;  a  pair  of  beautiful  wings  broke  thence,  and 
balanced  for  a  moment  above;  then  descended,  hovering 
about  the  head  of  the  child,  as  though  bestowing  some  word- 
less blessing ;  and,  finally,  spread  themselves  for  flight.  The 
•  bird  paused  where  the  laborer  rested  at  noon-tide ;  and  the 
eye  of  the  strong  man  brightened  as  he  wiped  the  sweat 
away,  and  leaned  against  the  rugged  bark  of  the  meadow-tree, 
yielding  himself  up  to  the  delicious  influence  of  its  music. 
Then  it  flew  to  the  casement  of  the  invalid,  and  thence  to  the 
roof-tree  of  the  cotter ;  and  thence  it  still  pursued  its  way 
kindly  and  lovingly,  pausing  to  warble  a  moment  even  by  the 
barred  window  of  the  criminal.  For  many  a  day,  the  bird- 
embodied  spirit  was  happy  and  contented,  and  believed  itself 
sent  upon  earth  but  for  the  purpose  of  winning  men,  by  such 
small,  sweet  efforts,  from  sorrow.  But,  as  it  nestled  one 
night  in  the  foliage  of  the  forest  tree,  there  came  a  sad  mis- 
giving, to  trouble  it.  It  had  heard  of  a  nobler  mission  than  it 
had  yet  dared  to  contemplate;  it  had  looked  into  a  path  toil- 
some, and  difficult  to  walk  in,  strewn  with  thorns,  and  beset 
with  dangers ;  but  yet  glorious  in  that  it  had  been  trodden  by 
a  Holy  One,  who  had  linked  it  to  heaven.  The  timid  spirit 
VOL.  n.  22* 


258  THE    DISSATISFIED   SPIRIT. 

trembled  as  it  thought,  and  folded  its  so!t  pinions  over  its 
breast,  and  strove  to  recollect  all  the  good  it  had  done  that 
day — how  it  had  softened  the  nature  of  the  sinful,  and 
dropped  balm  into  the  bosom  of  the  sorrowing ;  but  it  could 
not  shut  down  the  high  aspirations  which  were  swelling 
within  it.  It  knew  well  that  the  spirit  of  the  little  bird  was 
not,  like  itself,  an  emanation  from  the  Deity.  When  the  song 
was  hushed,  and  the  plumage  drooped,  it  would  "  go  down- 
ward to  the  earth  ;"  but  the  living  soul,  born  of  the  breath  of 
the  Almighty,  could  not  so  perish.  Should  it  fling  aside  its 
loftier  gifts,  and  take  upon  itself  the  mission  (sweet  and  beauti- 
ful though  that  mission  might  be)  of  the  soulless  bird  ?  "  Ah, 
no ! "  thought  the  pretty  warbler,  while  its  wings  seemed 
swelling  to  eagle's  pinions;  "the  air  is  full  of  birds  —  the 
world  is  ringing  with  melody  —  it  is  delightful  to  swell  the 
care-free  chorus;  but  there  is  a  higher,  nobler  mission,  still." 
As  its  breast  heaved  with  these  new  emotions,  a  soft  sound, 
as  of  a  lute,  stole  up  from  a  neighboring  grove,  and  an  exqui- 
sitely modulated  voice,  with  deep  earnestness,  clothed  its 
secret  thoughts  in  words : 

"  I  waste  no  more  in  idle  dreams,  my  life,  my  soul  away  ; 
I  wake  to  know  my  better  self —  I  wake  to  watch  and  pray. 
Thought,  feeling,  time,  on  idols  vain  I  've  lavished  all  too  long  ; 
Henceforth,  to  holier  purposes  I  pledge  myself,  my  song  ! 
Oh,  still  within  the  inner  veil,  upon  the  spirit's  shrine, 
Still,  unprofaned  by  evil,  burns  the  one  pure  spark  divine, 
Which  God  has  kindled  in  us  all,  and  be  it  mine  to  tend 
Henceforth,  with  vestal  thought  and  care,  the  light  that  lump  may  lend. 

"  I  shut  mine  eyes,  in  grief  and  shame,  upon  the  dreary  post, 
My  heart,  my  soul,  poured  recklessly  on  dreams  that  could  not  last, 
My  bark  has  drifted  down  the  stream,  at  will  of  wind  or  wave, 
An  idle,  light,  and  fragile  thing,  that  few  had  cared  to  save. 
Henceforth,  the  tiller  Truth  shall  hold  and  steer  as  Conscience  tells, 
And  I  will  brave  the  storms  of  fate,  though  wild  the  ocean  swells. 
I  know  my  soul  is  strong  and  high,  if  once  I  give  it  sway  ; 
I  feel  a  glorious  power  within,  though  light  I  seem,  and  gay. 
O,  laggard  soul !  unclose  thine  eyes.     No  more  in  luxury  soft 
Of  joy  ideal  waste  thyself!    Awake,  and  soar  aloft! 
Unfurl,  this  hour,  those  falcon  wings  •which  tbou  dost  fold  too  long; 
Raise  to  the  skies  thy  lightning  gaze,  and  sing  the  loftiest  song."* 

*  Mrs.  Osgood. 


THE    DISSATISFIED    SP1BIT.  259 

The  song  ceased,  and  the  struggling,  God-born  spirit, 
looked  down  on  the  cold  earth;  and,  not  forgetting  toil,  and 
'suffering,  and  weariness  —  not  forgetting  the  degradation  of 
sin,  and  the  constant  wrestling  of  the  higher  with  the  baser 
nature — exclaimed,  with  deep  enthusiasm,  "  What  a  sublime 
thing  to  be  a  man  ! " 

A  songster  was  missed  from  the  woodland ;  and  that  same 
day  knelt  one  in  prayer ;  and  then,  humble,  but  strong,  and 
happier  far  than  butterfly  or  bird,  went  cheerfully  forth  on 
man's  great  mission  —  TO  DO  GOOD.  % 


260 


FAREWELL  TO  ALDERBROOK. 

"  Farewell : 
I  may  not  dwell 
'Mid  flowers  and  music  ever." 

THE  hours  of  my  childhood  have  gone  back  to  their  old 
obliviousness  in  eternity ;  youth  is  on  the  wing,  fleeing — 
fleeing — fleeing.  There  is  but  a  narrow  shadow  lying 
between  my  foot  and  the  grave  which  it  seeks — a  veil  of  gray 
mist,  that  a  few  to-days  will  dissolve  into — what?  —  the 
sickening  perfume  of  dead  flowers,  or  incense  grateful  to 
Heaven  ? 

This  is  a  beautiful,  bright  world,  made  for  pure  beings. 
At  its  birth  angels  walked  among  its  cool  shadows,  bent  to 
its  bright  waters,  and  inhaled  its  perfumes ;  and  they  fled 
not,  those  holy  ones,  till  their  wings  drooped  beneath  the 
defiling  heaviness  of  sin.  A  false  breath  played  upon  the 
brow  of  man ;  heedlessly  he  opened  his  bosom  to  it ;  and 
there  it  at  once  nestled,  a  fatal  poison,  ever  distilling  venom. 
Still  the  flowers  bloomed ;  still  the  waters  flashed  and 
sparkled  in  the  warm  light;  still  the  breezes  waved  their 
censers  laden  with  rich  perfume  ;  still  the  birds  carolled ;  the 
stars  smiled ;  leaves  rustled,  kissing  each  other  lovingly ; 
dews  slumbered  in  lily  bells  and  the  hearts  of  roses,  and 
crept  around  withering  roots,  and  revived  fading  petals  ;  the 
sun,  and  the  moon,  and  the  silver  twilight,  each  wrought  its 
own  peculiar  broidery  on  earth  and  sky ;  but  upon  the  flow- 
ers, and  the  fresh  leaves,  and  the  waters,  and  the  breezes, 
the  gay,  beautiful  birds,  and  the  silent  dews,  on  sun,  and 
moon,  and  stars,  on  all,  everything  of  earth,  rested  the  taint 
of  sin.  In  the  morning  of  this  little  day  of  time,  what  more 
deliciously  sweet  than  to  recline  among  the  blossoming  luxu- 


FAREWELL    TO   ALDERBROOK.  261 

riance  of  Eden,  and  worship  God,  there,  in  his  own  temple  ?  It 
was  the  object  of  life  to  enjoy  its  own  blissfulness,  and  praise 
Him  who  gave  it.  But  when,  on  the  whisper  of  the  Tempter, 
sin  came,  it  brought  a  change.  The  poison  hid  itself  among 
all  the  beautiful  things  that  we  most  love,  engendering  thorns 
and  producing  discord :  it  festered  in  our  hearts,  revelled  in 
our  veins,  and  polluted  our  lips,  until  the  angels  veiled  their 
faces  in  disgust,  and  man  was  left  with  "  no  eye  to  pity,  no 
arm  to  save."  Then,  from  the  dense  cloud,  broke  forth  a  ray 
of  glory;  a  crowned  Head  looked  out  in  pity;  divine^lips 
bent  to  the  poisoned  wound ;  and  lost,  ruined  man  found  a 
Saviour.  He  was  heralded  by  angels  ;  angels  are  still  whis- 
pering, "  Look  !  look  !  live  ! "  that  Saviour  is  standing  with 
love-beaming  eyes  and  arms  extended;  but  men  are  blind 
and  cannot  see  his  beauty.  Shall  I  sit  down  among  thy 
flowers,  sweet  Alderbrook,  while  my  Redeemer  is  dishonored, 
and  my  brethren,  the  sons  of  those  who  walked  with  God 
in  Eden,  die  ? 

"Faultless,  if  blinded."— "  The  just  God  will  not  be 
angry  with  those  who,  not  knowing,  have  not  loved  him." 
Who  has  said  it  ? 

Ah!  "  The  invisible  things  of  Him  from  the  creation  of  the 
world  are  clearly  seen,  being  understood  by  the  things  that 
are  made,  even  his  eternal  power  and  Godhead  ;  so  that  they 
are  without  excuse"  The  beautiful  page  of  hill  and  dale 
and  sky  is  spread  open  to  all.  I  go  to  teach  my  brother  how 
to  read  it. 

Dear,  beautiful  Alderbrook  !  I  have  loved  thee  as  I  shall 
never  love  any  other  thing  that  I  may  not  meet  after  the  sun 
of  Time  is  set.  Everything,  from  the  strong  old  tree  that 
wrestles  with  the  tempest,  down  to  the  amber  moss-cup 
cradling  the  tiny  insect  at  its  roots,  and  the  pebble  sleeping 
at  the  bottom  of  the  brook, — everything  about  thee  has  been 
laden  with  its  own  peculiar  lesson.  Thou  art  a  rare  book, 
my  Alderbrook,  written  all  over  by  the  Creator's  ringer. 
Dearly  do  I  love  the  holy  truths  upon  thy  pages ;  but,  "  I 
may  not  dwell  'mid  flowers  and  music  ever  ;"  and  I  go 


262  FAREWELL    TO    ALDERBROOK. 

hence,  bearing  another,  choicer  book  in  my  hand,  and  echo- 
ing the  words  of  the  angels,  "  Look  !  look  !  livi-  !  " 

I  stand  on  the  verge  of  the  brook,  which  seems  to  me  more 
beautiful  than  any  other  brook  on  earth,  and  take  my  last 
survey  of  the  home  of  my  infancy.  The  cloud,  which  has 
been  hovering  above  the  trees  on  the  verge  of  heaven,  opens ; 
the  golden  light  gushes  forth,  bathing  the  hill-top,  and  stream- 
ing down  its  green  declivity  even  to  my  feet ;  and  1  accept 
the  encouraging  omen.  The  angel  of  Alderbrook,  "  the  min- 
istering spirit"  sent  hither  by  the  Almighty,  blesses  me. 
Father  in  heaven,  thy  blessing,  ere  I  go  ! 

Hopes  full  of  glory,  and  oh,  most  sweetly  sacred !  look  out 
upon  me  from  the  future ;  but,  for  a  moment,  their  beauty  is 
clouded.  My  heart  is  heavy  with  sorrow.  The  cup  at  my 
lip  is  very  bitter.  Heaven  help  me  !  White  hairs  are  bend- 
ing in  submissive  grief,  and  age-dimmed  eyes  are  made 
dimmer  by  the  gathering  of  tears.  Young  spirits  have  lost 
their  joyousness,  young  lips  forget  to  smile,  and  bounding 
hearts  and  bounding  feet  are  stilled.  Oh,  the  rending  of  ties, 
knitted,  at  the  first  opening  of  the  infant  eye  and  strengthened 
by  numberless  acts  of  love,  is  a  sorrowful  thing !  To  make 
the  grave  the  only  door  to  a  meeting  with  those  in  whose 
bosoms  we  nestled,  in  whose  hearts  we  trusted  long  before 
we  knew  how  precious  was  such  love  and  trust,  brings  with 
it  an  overpowering  weight  of  solemnity.  But  a  grave  is 
yawning  for  each  one  of  us ;  and  is  it  much  to  choose  whether 
we  sever  the  tie  that  binds  us  here,  to-day,  or  lie  down  on  the 
morrow  ?  Ah,  the  "  weaver's  shuttle  "  is  flying ;  the  "  flower 
of  the  grass  "  is  withering ;  the  span  is  almost  measured ;  the 
tale  nearly  told ;  the  dark  valley  is  close  before  us — tread  we 
with  care ! 

My  mother,  we  may  neither  of  us  close  the  other's  dark- 
ened eye,  and  fold  the  cold  hands  upon  the  bosom ;  we 
may  neither  of  us  watch  the  sod  greening  and  withering 
above  the  other's  ashes ;  but  there  are  duties  for  us  even 
more  sacred  than  these.  But  a  few  steps,  mother — diffi- 
cult the  path  may  be,  but  very  bright — and  then  wo  put 


FAREWELL    TO    ALDERBROOK.  263 

on  the  robe  of  immortality,  and  meet  to  part  nevermore. 
And  we  shall  not  be  apart  even  on  earth.  There  is  an  elec- 
tric chain  passing  from  heart  to  heart  through  the  throne  of 
the  Eternal;  and  we  may  keep  its  links  all  brightly  bur- 
nished by  the  breath  of  prayer.  Still  pray  for  me,  mother, 
as  in  days  gone  by.  —  Thou  bidst  me  go.  The  smile  comes 
again  to  thy  lip  and  the  light  to  thine  eye,  for  thou  hast  plea- 
sure in  the  sacrifice.  Thy  blessing  !  Farewell,  my  mother, 
and  ye  loved  ones  of  the  same  hearth-stone  ! 

Bright,  beautiful,  dear  Alderbrook,  farewell ! 

FANNY  FORESTER. 

June  I,  1846. 


END   OF    VOL.    H. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Lot  Angela 
This  book  ii  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


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